


Like Smoke In The Air

by Mercia



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguity, Brodinsons, Canon parallels, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Frigga's B+ Parenting, From Pre-Thor (2011) to Thor Ragnarok, Gaslighting, Gen, Growing Up, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Non-Chronological, Norse Bro Feels, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, Odin's B- Parenting, Other, POV Third Person, POV Thor (Marvel), Psychological, Unreliable Narrator, he tries but misses, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-18 10:10:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14210850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercia/pseuds/Mercia
Summary: “You're talking to yourself again,” says Loki.AU in which Thor has a little brother. Only Thor knows this.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey I'm posting a thing! Not gonna lie I'm actually quite proud of myself given that I finished this in just a month (which is a lot for me.)  
> Many thanks to my amaaazing beta @TakeThatUsername who is v knowledgeable and wise.<3
> 
> I hope you enjoy it :D
> 
> The title is from Beautiful Lies by Birdy.

_ Tell me beautiful lies _

_   
_ _ Cover my eyes with your hands _ _   
_ _ Just pretend we're better _

_   
_ _ Turn out the light _ _   
_ _ There are no more surprises to come _

_   
_ _ Let's be numb together _

  
  


* * *

  
When Thor gets banished to Midgard, realm of the mortals, he is not alone. He has his brother by his side.   
  
It's dark, night time probably, and the stars here seem so much more insignificant and muted than back at home. He's not been here two seconds and already there is sand in his heel, irritating and itching his sole. He doesn't care for it. There is nothing. A barren wasteland. 

 

So this is where Father sent him to learn his great lesson.    
  
As ever, Loki looks the epitome of composure — not even a single inky black wave out of place on his head. The expression on his face, however, is a foreign mixture of shock and somewhat  amusement.   
  
"I told you we shouldn't have gone to Jotunheim,” he says pointedly, just a little belatedly. And Thor has the urge to punch him, but it's never worked before.   
  
For once, though, he ignores him. He does not let himself be goaded into another battle of wits he undoubtedly won't win. And hey! Perhaps this is a sign he's learnt his lesson! He can come home now, right?    
  
Of course Odin will not see it — he doubts even the AllSeeing Heimdall can.   
  
Instead of answering, he continues to gaze around the darkness, looking for even a hint of horizon. The atmosphere here is hot and sticky and dense, and it makes the air hard to breathe, not unlike after a good fight. Reflexively, Thor's fingers twitch and itch for his hammer.   
  
But...he feels none of the static connection that comes with it's call — only silence.    
  
It's a reminder of just how good Father has made of his promise. He is so mortal now, too mortal. Probably won't last a day in this desert. Alone.   
  
No — not alone. Not truly.   
  
"Well," Loki hums beside him, "An apology would be nice, since I'm stuck here too, apparently."   
  
Which... is true. 

 

Wherever Thor goes, Loki will follow. Because it's not as though he has any choice in the matter. So yes, maybe Thor does owe him an apology, and maybe it would be the mature thing to give one. But Thor's still more than a little angry. Things can't possibly get any worse, so Loki will have to wait until he's simmered down a little. At least then, the apology might be a little sincere.    
  
As of right now, however, Thor can only grit his teeth, grunt, and wallow in his self-pity.   
  
"Oh!" And he hears Loki clicking his teeth together in that irritating way he does so often, "The Frost Giants  _ definitely _ had help. Which means it was an inside job." He says, voice buzzing like an insect waiting to be struck, as though Thor actually cares.

  
Yeah, he's learnt his lesson. Look at all this patience he's showing! Can he  _ please _ go back now?   
  
"Ha!” Loki snaps his fingers loudly, and it doesn't even echo because there's nothing for it to echo off of. Ugh. “The plot thickens. What do you think, Thor? Heimdall? Surely not! Much, much too loyal to Odin and to you. Hmmm..."   
  
Not even ten minutes in and Thor has tired of this. Can he at least have his hammer back so he can smash something? Anything? Or some sort of company other than  _ him _ .   
  
"Or Sif? She always did question your choices. Not that I can fault her considering our current predicament... how about—"   
  
" — Shut up, Loki!" Thor snaps, finally. Honestly, if it isn't his weak mortal heart and the heat, it is Loki that's doing his head in. "Can you please just shut up?!"   
  
"Please?" snickers Loki, unfazed as ever, "Finally, some manners in the Prince."   
  
"Look Brother, today was supposed to be  _ my _ day." And he wants to grip Loki's shoulders tight and shake him until he sees Thor's side, because Norns damn it, it's true! "Don't you understand that? I was to be King! And now I'm here. On this desolate plane, in this stupid realm, without even Mjolnir, or my strength, with my life reduced to that of a gnat, all alone."

  
"Thor-"   
  
"Don't you dare, Loki. Don't tell me about how I am not truly alone, like you're even here. We are not children anymore. I am not a child anymore. Besides, your voice must be so grating on my ears, I'd sooner you gone too. I cannot believe Father would do this to me. His son. I could die here! And I was well within my rights as a warrior of Asgard, no less a prince, to defend my honour!"    
  
"Thor, wa-"    
  
Thor wants to say something like "What", or "Stop interrupting me" but he can't. Because suddenly amidst the darkness is a flash of light (two lights, his brain notes faintly) and a screech.    
  
Oh. He thinks to himself. Oh.   
  
There is a great, hulking metal beast approaching swiftly which whines lowly, and Thor has none of his divine strength to hit it with but he'll be damned if he's going to be taken out by some snivelling creature within the first hour.    
  


He prepares his stance, ready for battle.

  
Then, strangely, the belly of the beast opens. Three figures clamber out. Mortals.   
  
Not a beast then, he concludes, a carriage. A horseless carriage. How… unique.   
  
They are talking loudly and rushed, in excited tones. Perhaps they know they are in the presence of a god, even in this diminished form. Perhaps because they are all too aware of what insignificant, short lives they lead and are all too eager to fill them.   
  
Still, it must be some sort of sign. Because he's been presented with a way out.   
  
"Greetings, mortals!" He shouts, and suddenly, now that he is not alone, the wind seems to be louder now. But he is the mighty Thor, God of Thunder, he is not bested by a breeze. So he pushes past whiplashing currents frantically and stumbles over as fast as his legs can carry him.   
  
"Hello!" He says again, this time quite a bit closer.   
  
The mortal nearest gives a loud scream and something that sounds like "holy fuck!". And then it's strange. Thor usually is the one wielding the lightning, but there's pain at his side, stupidly left open—Sif would have his head for that—and suddenly his mind goes static and blank.    
  
Oh, the irony of it.   
  
Loki, for all he seems to follow Thor around, is nowhere to be seen.   
  
Typical.

 

* * *

  
  


 

“What do you think death feels like?” Thor asks his little brother, resting his head against the oak of the table. 

 

His brother copies him the way younger siblings often do, resting his own head beside his. He scrunches up his face.

 

“I don't know why you would ask  _ me  _ that.”   
  


* * *

  
  
"You have a brother?" The Lady Jane asks, sipping her tea with one hand, and still writing with the other. She's a pretty girl, Thor thinks, and very clever. Loki would like her.   
  
"Yes. His name is Loki. I think he'd like you."    
  
She smiles kindly but it also looks as though she does not particularly care. "Thank you,” she says, nonetheless.    
  
He wonders what happens with Loki when Thor cannot see him. Where Loki goes. (Well, he amends, not where.) What does he do? (Not what, if.) But he knows Loki will always return; as brothers always should.

 

* * *

  
  
  
Thor is young, only about four centuries, and he's having dinner with his family. Father, Mother and his brother, Loki. It's a joyous scene. Idyllic really. It's roast venison tonight, with potatoes and turnips and parsnips. Father laughs and offers him a tiny sip of his mead.    
  
"For your health!" he says, and Frigga allows it. Just.    
  
"Not too much,” warns his mother.   
  
Thor hums eagerly and leans over to his father's side of the table, pleased he's being treated like a grown-up. At this rate, he'll surely grow into a fine warrior!    
  
Father holds the golden chalice to his lips and Thor takes a gulp that is perhaps a little too eager. It's... he doesn't like it. Too spicy down his tongue and down his throat and not nearly as sweet or scrumptious as the peach juice in his cup. But Father likes it; so he forces his face not to screw up and pushes it back to Father with haste. Warriors drink mead, he tells himself sternly, and he is a warrior.    
  
Across the table, his parents look to be holding in laughter, so he licks his lips in exaggeration and offers a wide smile. 

 

"I loved it!" he says, and thinks they've bought it, because it matters so much what they think. And always will.   
  
Perhaps, he wonders, warriors drink it to prove their mettle against such a poisonous tasting thing? After all, how can one choose it for enjoyment? Yes, that must be it.    
  
He glances over at Loki, who's sitting next to him watching them all with sparkling eyes. Strange, Loki is only quiet around dinner, really. 

 

"You should give some to Loki,” he tells Father brightly.    
  
Thor is not often one for mischief, he is very honourable, but this is harmless. And it's fine to indulge himself once in a while, right?   
  
"Thor," says Loki, who seems even quieter though he's actually speaking now, "I don't think that's such a good idea."   
  
Ha! The coward.   
  
Mother exchanges a glance with Father and tilts her head at him questioningly. "Loki?"   
  
"Yes. Brother should try some. Surely he is just as worthy to try it!" He cannot wait to see Loki's face at the taste, payback for yesterday when he got Thor into trouble for wandering and did not get into any himself.   
  
Father smiles slowly, unsure. "Of course, Thor. For your brother, Loki,” he says, and offers him the chalice. "Why don't you hold it for him?"   
  
So Thor takes the chalice and turns back to Loki. Loki, who is studying Mother and Father with a cautious expression, pupils shifting between them warily.   
  
"Well?" He says after a moment, looking anxious, "Hold it up then. Give us a sip."   
  
He does, careful not to spill any, and waits with bated breath for Loki's reaction.    
  
It's disappointing to say the least. Thor hands it back to their father and Loki whips him a sly grin.    
  
"Delicious,” he announces loudly to the table at large. Thor scowls.   
  


* * *

  
  
  
"You're back,” says Thor, looking up from what the Midgardians call the 'newspaper'. He's looking at a particular story which features the apparent health benefits of eating less sugar. He's never heard such a silly statement in his life.  
  
"It would appear that I am,” replies his brother vaguely, striding towards him and peering over to look at the article.   
  
All the things in the paper seem really quite boring, including this, so Thor folds it up and puts it down on the table. "Why?" He asks bluntly, looking at him directly. He can't tell whether or not he cares for the answer, but there's not much else to do anyway.   
  
Jane Foster, Erik Selvig and Darcy Lewis are all away at the moment. Something about groceries and talking privately, and Thor doesn't particularly feel the need to wander outside when he is so provided for here.   
  
Loki shrugs despondently, "Why am I ever here?"   
  
Which... fair enough. He can hardly fault him for that answer. Besides, what was he expecting? These non-answers are too typical for him. He huffs and rolls his eyes at his brother.  
  
"Where were you?"   
  
It's bright outside. They're still in the desert, in the measly, little, metal camp the mortals have set up. His brother ventures towards the window and looks out into the distance. Ever the flair for dramatics.  
  
It must run in the family.  
  
"My, you've been on this realm for no more than three days, and already you've grown a little more inquisitive. I'm afraid, I can't quite decide how I feel about it."    
  
Snorting, Thor makes his way to stand beside him, trying to see what he's looking for, and trying to match him equally in theatrics. "Well?"  
  
"Nowhere. As always." He hums before flicking his eyes up to meet his, the glinting green clashing with the vivid blue of the sky outside.   
  
Thor's always wondered why Loki has green eyes. Not the deep clear blue of the family; or the tanned, sun-kissed, ichor-filled skin; or the fair locks of spun gold.   
  
Nay, he has sleek black hair of coal which swallows the light; pale, snowy skin like  moonlight or marble stone; and quick, clever eyes of forest, then sometimes emerald, green—though, when they were younger, he'd have sworn to see them shift red.  
  
And Thor would never say it, but he's glad for it. Likes the differences of his brother just as much as he wonders about them. It's refreshing to have a companion so different, so other, even if not everyone can see.   
  
"Come now," he says, smiling. "That's not a true answer, surely."  
  
Loki studies his expression, like he always is, Thor assumes, but he's grateful Loki has allowed him to see It. He's never really sure what Loki is looking for on his face, in his eyes or the micro-movements of his lips. Hopefully he will find it.   
  
"Oh, but it is." Loki turns back to the window, quickly. Too quickly. Thor adjusts his weight and tries to imitate him. Silly because of the differences in build. "Why? What would the _great_ _Thor_ like to hear?"  
  
He finds himself smiling now, "Something more interesting than 'nowhere,' I'd expect."   
  
He's waiting for the jest, for Loki to come back at him with something so witty he won't understand until later, or that will leave him dumbstruck with the blow. Or, even a grand story about finding dragons on Midgard of all places.   
  
Instead, Loki just shrugs again. Tired. Resigned.   
  
Thor hasn't realised until now just how much he's been relying on his little brother to return, clap him on the back and flash that wicked sharp grin and tell him not to worry, he has a plan. Because despite how it might often seem, Loki is usually the more stubborn out of them.   
  
"I'm afraid," he begins with a small sigh, " The great Thor will just have to wait."  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Thor is one and a half centuries old, and he doesn't have a brother. Not yet, at least.   
  
Father is away, fighting the good fight. For it is Asgard's duty, he knows, to keep the safety of the realms. And Thor's papa is the AllFather and the King of Asgard. Those below them on Midgard cannot fend for themselves, too weak and puny, so Papa must lead their armies to defend them instead.   
  
Thor knows this. He does, really!   
  
Still, he cannot help but miss him. Which is all right. It's all right to miss him. Mama says it's natural, and let's him crawl up into bed with her, which he hasn't done since he moved to a separate room three years ago.   
  
At least he isn't crying anymore. He stopped after the third day, and Mother said she had to keep Asgard running. He'd been trailing her all of last week, but it had grown boring.    
  
So now Thor is in his room, playing with the wooden sword Lord Tyr gave him for his birthday last year. It's nowhere near as fun without Father, but it's definitely much better that listening to Mama talk about stupid politics with the other adults.    
  
There's a soft knock on the door, and Thor is tempted to ignore it, but he knows his mother would tell him off for being rude. Besides, the company might be nice, even if it's just a servant.    
  
"Enter,” he says primly, trying not to look too eager.   
  
The door swings open heavily, and a maid peeks in. "Prince Thor?" She says, smiling kindly, "Queen Frigga requests your presence for dinner."   
  
Thor huffs, but puts down his toys, eager to see his mother not in the company of the court. "Now?"   
  
"Yes. Now, Your Highness."   
  
"Very well then,” he replies, and tries not to rush his steps. By the time they reach Mother's chambers, he is positively bouncing in anticipation.    
  
They eat in peace: a simple meal of bread and roasted pork and potatoes. It's nice, even without Father there. After, Mama asks Thor to prepare for bed, and says she will read to him a story.    
  


* * *

  
  
  
Thor senses Loki's presence naturally now, like the return of the function of a once missing limb. Instinctual. Both serving to soothe and prickle his nerves.   
  
He speaks first today.   
  
"I don't see why you're so intent on blaming me. I've done some thinking on the matter."   
  
Loki doesn't look up, busy skimming the words in one of Jane's notebooks, flipping idly through the pages. "Oh, that's new,” he replies in a dull tone. "Thinking, that is. Pushing the blame on others? Well."   
  
Thor feels himself rise to the jibe but tries steadily to ignore it. "No, it's still my fault, but it's equally yours too, isn't it? Technically speaking."   
  
Loki hums, puts the book down and goes in for another. "I rather thought we'd established by now there wasn't much difference between what faults are yours and which are mine."    
  


* * *

  
  
  
The story is a new one—or at least one Thor hasn't heard before.    
  
He's burrowed under the covers and tucked into Mama’s side, feeling fresh from his bath and mildly sleepy, though it seems to be gradually increasing. There's a book in his mother's hand, thin but with bright, bold illustrations.    
  
She opens it, and Thor sits up abruptly so he can see the pictures properly, banging the top of his head on his mother's chin. She merely smiles and kisses him lightly on the head.   
  
The story starts with a hero, as always. Golden and honourable.   
  
"Like Father,” interrupts Thor, though he is mostly saying this to himself in a most assured manner.   
  
The Queen smiles, though her mind drifts briefly to her husband and her banished, forgotten daughter. Thor does not know anything.   
  
But the hero has a flaw, you see. They are tragically prone to anger and arrogance. It's not gotten to the ending yet.    
  
"I don't like the hero anymore,” says Thor, halfway to sleep already.   
  
She shakes her head and frowns briefly, "The hero is good, not perfect, Thor." But Thor just shrugs and points to the next character in the picture.   
  
"Who's that?"    
  
It's a boy with pale skin, dark hair, and green eyes, almost Elvin features. He wears a small smile on his face, and a bright clever gaze.   
  
"His brother," replies Mama, and continues to read on.   
  
The brother is wicked smart and always has the hero's back. Loyal. He is much more interesting, a young Thor decides. A good and steady companion, with a skill with words. Perfect for the imperfect hero. He does not have much brawn but he does not need it.   
  
"I wish I had a brother," murmurs Thor, eyes drifting.    
  
Mama shuts the book and places it on the stand next to the bed before wrapping her arms around him, hugging him close under the covers.   
  
"That's a lovely thought, Thor,” she says, and kisses his cheek.    
  
"Can I?" asks Thor, plaintively. He looks to his mother with his bright blue eyes and quivers his lower lip a little. Because he is only one and a half centuries, and he's figured out by now that most people will do almost anything for him if he adjusts his face just right.    
  
However, Mama only laughs lightly, and pulls him in tighter. And Thor scowls because he hasn't got a yes, but he's really much too tired to plead.   
  
At least it is not a no.   
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
Thor has friends now. He has Fandral and Hogun and Volstagg and Sif. He is happy.    
  
Still, every now and then he inclines his head as little to the left, to mutter something to his brother. Who is not there.    
  
"Come, Thor!" Shouts Fandral, further up ahead, "Alfheim awaits us, and the game will not stop for your heavy boots!"   
  
Grinning, Thor replies "You call me heavy, Fandral?"    
  
"Nay," Sif chuckles just a little in front, "He calls you slow, good Prince."    
  
"Then he must speak plainly,” he says, and spurs his horse onwards from it's canter to a gallop, catching up to his companions from behind.    
  
They race their way across the rainbow bridge to the gate of the Bifrost, a path that has been well memorized by now. Volstagg has not been able to make it this time around, for he has children, but they have all promised to save him the head of their best hunt.   
  
As usual, Hogun is the first to arrive and is already making conversation with Heimdall, their AllSeeing Gatekeeper.    
  
Thor has half a mind to ask the Gatekeeper if he sees Loki, but keeps his mouth shut. Asking did not go well last time.    
  
"Greetings, Heimdall,” he says instead, smiling cheerfully.   
  
Heimdall turns his head and bows respectfully. "Your Highness."    
  
Thor savours the feeling. It's nice, all the bowing and everything from those below him, and the rush which comes every time he realises he has power over those even as great  as Heimdall. Loki says it gets to his head sometimes, and he should not feel so drunk on it.    
  
But he's probably just jealous.   
  
"You seek passage to Alfheim, no?" asks Heimdall, though he likely already knows.   
  
They nod. "For the hunting season."    
  
Heimdall nods, and blesses them with safe travels and a good hunt before going to stand at the Sword of the Bifrost.

 

The mighty roar of power fills his ears and the myriad of colours dance around him in blinding streaks of luminescence.    
  
Happy hunting, indeed.

 

* * *

 

 

Out of the two of them, it's obvious from the beginning which of them is to be King, and sit on the throne, and which is to be the hand behind it.

 

All Thor’s lessons are  _ Thor’s  _ lessons, though Loki is present for almost all of them. 

 

_ Besides _ , Loki waves his hand dismissively, Thor is the eldest, of course he is the heir. 

 

Still, Thor wonders why Loki attends their lessons at all, even as he serves no more than a witness.

 

Odin sits Thor on his knee, on the throne, together. Loki stands at the armrest, listening so attentively.

 

“Thor,” says Odin, in his solemn, serious face which he knows means this is a lesson he will have to remember, word for word. Something unshakable, to root into his mind and stick by as some fundamental truth.

 

“A wise king never seeks out war, but he must always be ready for it.”

 

Odin speaks this quietly, firmly, tiredly. Like he has already said this many a time before. Thor knows he has not.

 

At their side, in their shadow, he sees Loki watching and listening eagerly, enraptured, drinking them in like water, as he does with all Father’s words, so Thor does the same.

 

“And you must never forget that, my son,” says Odin, and Thor nods.

 

He won't.   


 

* * *

  
  
Father returns from the war with surprisingly little fanfare. Yes, there are feasts which last many days, and songs sung, and pyres burnt in honour of those passed on to Valhalla, but the actual return is quiet.    
  


One might almost say intimate.

 

And though it is not what he expected, later, Thor will be relieved by it.

  
On the steps of the palace gates, Thor waits with Mother, fidgeting anxiously in anticipation. He didn't expect it to take this long, and most of the other warriors have returned. It’s been  _ forever _ . Only Father and a few generals must remain, maybe gathering up the bodies of the fallen for their families to properly mourn.    
  
It does not occur to Thor that there is a chance his father might be among them, or his Uncles Prince Vili and Ve, or Lord Tyr whom gifted him his first sword. For they are as good as immortal in Thor's eyes. Invincible.   
  
Mama clutches Thor's hand tight in her own, eyes searching, lips pursed. He wishes her to give him a hug, or to kiss him on the head or tell him a story to pass the time. It's taking for ages, and Thor can't quite deny the twinge of envy he feels when he catches sight of other children being reunited with their fathers and, on occasion, mothers.   
  


Eventually, his own mother ushers him to wait inside. Winter in Asgard is not as perilous as in other places, but she does not want him catching a chill.

  
It's almost nightfall when Papa arrives. Finally. Thor, peeks open his eyes from where he's been dipping in and out of sleep, in the lounge of his parents chambers, permitted to stay up only for the occasion.    
  
"Father!" He squeals in excitement, sprinting up and hugging his legs. "You're late," Thor scolds seriously, before stomping on his father's foot in annoyance. His papa chuckles, and passes a bundle of something to Mama's arms who stands next to them smiling softly at the scene, before scooping his son into his arms and hugging him tight.   
  
"I've missed you, my son,” he says, clutching him close to his chest. Thor hears his father's breath, which is rough and long, and thinks he might be trying to inhale him.   
  
"I missed you too, Papa,” he says, clutching on just as hard. He pulls back a little, just to study his face. And frowns. "What happened to your eye, Papa?"    
  
Because there is a bandage around his face, covering one of his eyes—Thor forgets which is left and which is right sometimes.    
  
Papa merely shrugs, and tells him not to worry about it.    
  
"What's that?" He asks pointing the the squirming bundle of cloth in Mama’s arms. She looks so happy she could cry. She beams at him, eyes watery and bright, before looking down at it and rocking it back and forth softly, cooing.   
  
"A babe,” she says smiling. "What do you think, Thor? What should we name your brother?"   
  
"Brother?!" What brother? Thor tries to think of any stories of where brothers might come from, but can think of none. Where have his parents found a brother for him?    
  
"Frigga—" Father says, in his tone that means it's a warning.   
  
Thor leans over as far as he can without letting go of his father's cape. "Can I see him?"   
  
Mother’s smile tightens minutely for a moment. "Maybe later, Thor,” she replies, angling her body away. He wants to protest but thinks better of it.   
  
"Will you tell me about all your battle tales?" Thor turns back to his father, beginning to yawn and rub his eyes.    
  
"Tomorrow,” he promises, carrying him into his and Mother's bedroom. "You must sleep first."   
  
"But I want to hear them now,” pouts Thor, though yes, he is very tired.   
  
Shaking his head gently, Papa places him in bed, tucks the covers him around him and places a wet kiss on his forehead, stroking his hair lightly, tenderly. "Go to sleep, Thor. Your mother and I will join you in a moment."   
  
Thor wants his parents to stay here so he can fall asleep between them, but instead he nods. "Where're you going?"    
  
"To the healing rooms. We must speak with Healer Eir.  But we'll be back soon, okay?"   
  
A hazy cloud of sleep claims him before he can ask why, but he's too tired to fight it, content that his whole family is home around him. Just like they should be.   
  
_ And he has a brother! _   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
There are quite a few things Thor has learnt from his time on Midgard, though they are probably not what Father intended for him to learn.    
  
For instance: doughnuts are very delicious jelly-filled wonders, and whoever invented chocolate must be a genius sorcerer, for they seem to be the treasures of the universe, and, if stirred in with a little hot milk, can be a delicious substitute for a sleeping draught. Also that Midgardians drink daily some sort of poison called coffee. It's just disgusting, even if it does smell rather nice.   
  
Lady Jane as well as her friends seem to live on it, though. Which is strange, living on poison.   
  
"It's basically her blood now," is what Lady Darcy says, sliding a mug over to her.   
  
And that doesn't make sense, either. How is that possible? Surely that would kill her! Or maybe, that is why mortals live such little lives. "Oh?" He says, and because he does not want to seem unknowledgeable, so he does not ask her how. Instead he asks, "And what is your blood, my Lady?"   
  
She snorts. "I dunno. Wine, probably."   
  
The thinking is making his head hurt, though, so he stops. That's the boring stuff, which is what Loki is usually for, anyway.   
  
(Even if that doesn't make sense as well. After all, everything Loki knows, theoretically so should Thor. They are supposed to be the same.)   
  
"You should take a break,” says Lady Darcy to Lady Jane, after her fifth distressed groan in the same minute. Once again, however, she is ignored and, at least this time, Lady Jane merely waves her hand in dismissal, too absorbed in her work.   
  
That's another thing Thor has learned. Jane Foster seems to have an utterly insatiable thirst for knowledge, and she seems to build her entire being around it. The most curious being he may have ever encountered.

 

Also the most frustrated, perhaps. Frowning, Thor peers over the table to look at the numbers, letters and diagrams that seem to swirl all over the page. He doesn't understand a word of it.    
  
Lady Jane scowls and rips the page out the notebook rather erratically, crunching it up and chucking it carelessly behind her. Her assistant winces, slides the coffee closer to her, goes to pick it up and, after a brief moment of deliberation, unfolds it and pins it to the wall, carefully smoothing out the creases.   
  
"What are you working on?" He asks, this time hoping for an explanation instead of having to peek at the script he cannot make sense of, even with the Allspeak.  There's no answer, only the sound of her stylus—a  _ pen _ , apparently—scratching across the surface of the paper.    
  
Behind her, Lady Darcy rolls her eyes and kicks Lady Jane's chair, snapping her out of her reverie. "Oi!" She yells, voice loud and commanding but not harsh. Lady Jane looks up and blinks at her, a bewildered expression on her face. Thor thinks it's rather adorable. "Drink your coffee. And Thor asked you a question. Don't be rude."   
  
Her cheeks turn just a little rosy and he thinks she might be blushing.   
  
Thor manages to stammer out an, "Ah, it is quite all right, Lady Jane. I do not want to interrupt your work after all."   
  
"No, what did you want to ask?" She tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ears. 

  
He swallows, and Lady Darcy gives him an encouraging thumbs up. "What are you working on?"    
  
It's very complicated, and to be completely honest he doesn't understand most of it. Or any of it. But he likes the way Lady Jane seems to flush with excitement and how passionate she is about whatever she is talking about or how she uses her hands to explain things with wild and seemingly inarticulate gestures. It's something about bridges, roses, worms, holes and equations, which doesn't seem to make a lot of sense—but then, Thor has learnt by now, not a lot here does.

 

About fifteen minutes in she is still talking avidly about space-time and something about warp-drives and some book called  _ A Wrinkle in Time,  _ when Thor hears a voice say, “She’s a lot closer than I'd have expected.”

 

Thor jumps about two feet into the air, whips his head around and gapes. “Loki!?” because he did not expect his brother to show up with all these mortals here.

 

“Calm down, it's just me,” calls Erik Selvig from the door, who seems to have appeared at the same time as well and is carrying some boxes which smell like food. “I come bearing Chinese,” he yells after a second, “A thanks would be nice.”

 

Across the table Lady Jane frowns, “Loki? As in your brother Loki?”

 

“Brother? You have a brother?” Lady Darcy licks her lips, and murmurs something under her breath like  _ hot damn _ .

 

Carefully, Thor settles himself back down into his seat, glances at Loki who is just casually leaning against the counter, and tries to wrack his brain for an appropriate reply. 

 

Loki puts his finger to his lips, smirking. “Shhh… Brother.” 

 

And he knows that. He can't say anything about it—in fact he shouldn't have mentioned Loki in the first place. It's never a good idea. Never ever. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, cringing at the tone of his own voice. He's never been good at lying, and though that ought to be good, it is a hassle when one wants to lie. “I was just reminded that…”

 

“My brother is very knowledgeable on the subject,” says Loki, saving Thor's behind yet again.

 

“My brother is very knowledgeable in the subject,” Thor repeats.

 

“And — ” Loki’s pacing now. “ —I f he were here, he would say that in order for the Bi- the  _ Einstein-Rosen Bridge _ to work,” to be perfectly honest, Thor is not quite sure if he's repeating real words. It all sounds a bit mumbo-jumbo-y. “You would need a source at both ends of the bridge. Especially at this realm, where there is little to no seidr to make a one-way bridge possible.”

 

He finishes with a smile and a flourish, and sees Loki nodding, looking quite pleased with himself. And then thinks about what he's just relayed back to the mortals.

 

All three of them are gawking at him.

 

“Um,” begins Darcy, looking confused and mildly suspicious at the same time, “You what?”

 

And  _ damn it _ Loki! He's supposed to be helping Thor, not creating more problems.

 

“I'm afraid I must excuse myself to go to the toilet,” he says slowly, unsure, and then proceeds to dash over to the small shared bathroom. Very promptly.

 

* * *

 

 

_ It hurts, doesn't it? ...Being told you're one thing and then learning it's all a fiction. _

 

* * *

 

 

It's much too hot to stay inside and reading is boring. As with most young boys (future warriors), Thor wants to go outside and play or fight with his friends. 

 

But he can't.

 

And of all places to be, they're stuck in the  _ library _ . The library! Can you believe it? Filled with the universe’s most dullest objects and probably people, too.

 

All because Loki wants to read and study books. Stupid Loki. And Loki says Thor isn't allowed to leave him. Which is stupid. Why can't Loki just study and do his stupid reading by himself? Thor isn't even doing anything! What does Loki need him for?

 

Thor groans loudly for about the millionth time in a minute, tempted to start banging his head on the table.

 

“Tell me why you cannot just read alone, again?” He prods at his brother’s arm, whining.

 

Lowering his book a little, Loki eyes him and sighs irritably. “You just can't, okay? Besides, the longer you pester me, the longer it'll take me to finish this.”

 

That makes Thor snort. “Yeah, which is when you'll just get another book, and this will start all over again.”

 

It's unclear why Loki doesn't like playing with Thor and his friends. Or well, he usually likes playing with Thor, but never his friends. He can't remember a time he's even seen them in the same room for more than five minutes. Loki’s very good at disappearing. Much _ too _ good at it, really.

 

Thor drums his fingers on the table top rhythmically. A steady, _ bah-ta-ta tah, bah-ta-ta tah… _

 

His brother sighs again, but continues flicking the pages. 

 

This is so boring.

 

Why couldn't he have had a normal, cool brother who liked to play imaginary dragons and play with swords or liked hanging out with friends? It's not  _ fair _ .

 

There's surprisingly other people in the library. No doubt other boring scholars and academics; what miserable lives they must lead.  _ Not as miserable as mine _ , he thinks,  _ at least they've chosen this existence. _ A woman, perhaps of Vanir heritage, stands up three tables over, an undoubtedly heavy collection of texts in her arms, and makes her way over to the Desk of the Masters. 

 

She must be checking out a book. 

 

And the idea comes to him like a beacon of light. “Loki,” he begins excitedly, “Why don't you just bring the book out with you? Then I can go play with Fandral, Hogun and Sif, and you can read!” It is a most marvellous idea, and Thor wonders why Loki didn't think of it, considering the intellect he claims to have.

 

Loki shuts the book, gently but also loudly. Huffs and mumbles something inaudible to himself. “Fine. Let's just go outside then, shall we? Help me put the books back.” 

 

For some reason, he doesn't question why Loki doesn't take his suggestion, all too happy that he can play with his friends  _ and _ his brother. It doesn't really seem to matter too much; the sky outside is bright and warm, and it's a most opportune time for playing. 

 

“You will play with us this time?” he inquires eagerly, just as they're leaving the library, “Don't just disappear this time, okay, Brother? You never seem to get to play with the others.”

 

“I don't see why it matters,” replies Loki, tone flat and guarded. He looks away, shrugging. 

 

“Of course it matters. They're your friends, too, you know.”

 

“My friends, too—” he stops himself. Frowns and seems to debate with himself. “In a way,” he agrees slowly, cautiously, “I suppose.”

 

They meet the others outside in one of the many courtyards on the palace grounds. Already halfway up a tree, Sif is pointing her wooden sword at the others like a general commanding their troops. There's an exaggerated grimace on her face and she stands on the branch, puffing her chest out.

 

Upon seeing him, they all break their characters, faces splitting into matching grins. Waving back cheerily, Thor rushes ahead to meet them. 

 

“Friends!” he says by way of greeting, “What mighty quests do we venture today?” 

 

“We are off to war,” Sif says, jumping down from her stoop. “Slaying those beasts in Jotunheim and claiming glory.”

 

“Yes,” agrees Fandral, “What took you so long?” 

 

Rolling his eyes, Thor jabs his thumb in the direction of Loki, who has taken to standing in the corner with a pinched expression. Norns, why does he have to have such a boring brother? “Loki wanted to stay in the library to  _ read _ . Can you believe it? I managed to lure him out, though.”

 

His brother is watching them now, rapt, his attention flickering to Thor then his friends. There is a resigned look on his face. 

 

“Loki?” Fandral knits his eyebrows. “Who—" Hogun  tugs on his sleeve and whispers something in his ear. To be honest, it doesn't bode well to Thor. He doesn't like his friends keeping secrets without him. “Oh.” The blond clears his throat. “This again.”

 

“What is it?” asks Thor, curious and more than a little annoyed now.

 

All three of them turn wide-eyed to look at him. “Nothing.”

 

He shrugs then and allows the others to hand him another wooden sword and shield. The mission, according to Sif, is simple. Kill all the monsters, all the Frost Giants, defeat their king, and retrieve the treasure. What the treasure is yet, Thor does not know, but it is exciting nonetheless. 

 

Jotunheim, they imagine, is dark and barren. A vast icy wasteland where no life may live, save the savages that somehow dwell there. Spiked, crackling chunks of ice, and a glassy sheen covering the land in fractured pieces. All the warriors stay vigilant, treading forward with sure but steady feet, back to back, with their Commander Sif leading the charge. Impossible odds, but they can make it. For they have conquered all their foes before, and though they are outnumbered, some blue brute king will be no match for them.

 

There! Red eyes reveal themselves amongst the shadows, between razor crystals of ice, Thor lunges for the kill but Hogun gets there first. Another! Coming for the back of his comrade, how dishonourable these creatures are! This one is Thor's.  

 

Adrenaline surges through their veins, and they feel the rush of a good battle curling them. They are in perfect synchronization. Sif quick and sharp and skilful, Fandral moving with grace and vigour and grinning wildly, Hogun  slashing with the most precision and efficiency, and Thor who has fire—no,  _ thunder _ —in his eyes, giving them Hel and forcing his wrath upon them. They know no fear.

 

“Let us finish this!” roars Sif in a battle cry, raising her sword.

 

The prize, in the end, is lunch apparently, because Fandral's mother comes to tell them she has a veal pie and some sweet fruits for them, and that they should follow her before it gets cold. Fandral's mother makes good pie, Thor knows, so he finds he doesn't mind the quest being interrupted. They can continue later, anyway.

 

Thor turns to Loki, to remark about how  _ much more fun  _ this was compared to staying holed up inside, reading a book all day, and finds his side where his brother should be standing empty. 

 

Come to think of it, he can't remember Loki playing at all.

 

An odd feeling settles into his gut. “Did anyone see where Loki went?” he asks his friends. “Or when, actually. He  _ promised _ me he would play with us.”

 

His friends exchange nervous glances, and Fandral's mother gives him a sympathetic little sigh. “Who's Loki?”

 

“Thor’s  _ brother _ ,” tells Sif, but there's a tone in her voice which Thor finds he does not like. 

 

“Don't question it, Mother,”  Fandral says quickly, before she can reply. She raises her eyebrows delicately but keeps her mouth shut.

 

Lunch is, as expected, quite good. They recite their adventure to Fandral's mother who smiles softly, and Hogun  makes a game of catching berries in his mouth which he always seems to win. They talk about how boring their lessons are (except their warrior training) and complain about their masters and let Sif ramble on about the Shieldmaidens of Vanaheim.

 

And nobody answers his question about Loki.

 

* * *

 

  
  


Dinner is a little more quiet and subdued than normal. 

 

Today has been a… good day? Disappointing one? To be honest, Thor can't really decide. On one hand, he's had a really great time with his friends and it's been such a merry day; on the other hand, he hasn't seen Loki since this morning. And he  _ promised. _

 

He thinks back to the secretive whispers of his friends when he mentioned Loki, and the looks they thought were subtle. Perhaps his brother was right to stay away, since Thor's so-called friends seem to dislike him so much.

 

He must be upset. What if he thinks Thor prefers them over him, and then he frowns—does he? After all, the things Loki is interested in just seem so… trivial, mundane, hardly worthy of attention. 

 

Maybe he's just being a bad brother. He should apologise.

 

Only… Loki is not even here, at dinner. And their mother and father do not even seem to be questioning it. 

 

_ “Who’s Loki?”  _ Fandral's mother had said.

 

Nothing seems to be making sense.

 

Thor wipes his mouth with his sleeve roughly, pushes himself off his chair and strides towards the door without so much as a word. He can feel his parents watching him. He doesn't care.

 

“Thor.” Father's voice echoes through the room, quiet but hard and demanding. “Sit down. I would like to speak with you.”

 

He doesn't sit down. Stays on his feet with his back to his parents and his hand around the handle of the door. Pauses.

 

“Where's Loki?” He asks instead, and for some reason he finds his voice shaking. The lighting in the room seems much too bright, all of a sudden, and he wonders briefly if they always were this bright, and if it had just taken him this long to notice. 

 

“Odin…” he hears Mother say gently, in the tone she makes when she is trying to smooth something over, gloss and cover it up.

 

“Where. Is. Loki.” The frustration in his voice surprises Thor. He's not used to taking on this tone with either of his parents. But he grits his teeth, forcing himself to remain.

 

From the other side of the room, Father sighs loudly, ignoring him now, apparently. “No, Frigga, this has gone on long enough. Thor,  _ come here. _ ”

 

Of course it works. It always, always does. There is something about that particular tone in his Father’s voice which seems to make his body follow automatically. Perhaps it is some kind of enchantment—it would make him feel better about it, but more likely it has just been ingrained into him for so long now he cannot help it. 

 

In any case, his feet stumble back to the table blindly and he finds himself in front of his father before he even realises he's moved. 

 

“Loki,” begins Father, soft yet coldly, “Loki is nowhere, my boy. Loki is in your head. Stop this foolishness at once. I thought you might have grown out of this childish game, now that you have real friends, but seeing as you haven't, I implore you to, now.”

 

Everything is just so confusing. What does he mean? 

 

“I—" Thor licks his lips, fidgets anxiously with his tunic. “I don't understand.”

 

Father's knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip on his knife and fork. He drops them carelessly and they clatter onto his plate with a clang. He takes a long, measured breath.

 

“There is nothing to understand, Thor. There is  _ nothing _ . You— the—” For the first time in his life, Thor sees his father struggle with his words. His father. The King. Odin Allfather. “Cease this delusion at once. If you want more friends, then I shall provide you with the means to make them, but do not go around playing make believe that you have a  _ brother. _ ”

 

Make believe? What is he talking about? He  _ does _ have a brother. 

 

Next to Father, Mother sits looking down into her lap, her hand shaking around her wine goblet. She looks quite unwell. Pale.

 

Father however, is red in the face. “Do you know, this afternoon Astrid the Gentle, your friend Fandral’s mother, came to me telling me her son was concerned for your sanity? And where is Loki? You ask. Where is your brother? Your brother  _ is _ —"

 

“Odin,” Mother says again, but this time her tone is harsh, her eyes look glittery and watery, “Don't.”

 

“Mother what…” What is happening? He wants to ask. Why does nobody know who Loki is? It is like some convoluted, disturbed dream; or an elaborately twisted prank, which is not funny.

 

A hand on his shoulder brings him to focus. Father is staring into his face, gravely. “Are you unwell, my boy? Do you need to speak with Healer Eir? Is your mind intact? Has it been addled with, or poisoned at all? Answer me this, and I shall answer you. You _have_ _no brother,_ Thor. Where is Loki? Well, he is all in your head, and your head only. And you are too old for these games.”

 

Around him, everything seems to be slowing down now. Father’s movement and breaths no longer seem so ragged or sharp, but more deep. And Mother has stilled completely. 

 

It's a bitter contrast to Thor's mind, where his frigid thoughts fly in shards and fragments so quick he can hardly catch them, and when he does catch them, they cut. 

 

How cruel.

 

How could Father say such a thing to his son about another? How can a parent just dismiss his own child like that?

 

Thor lets his eyes wander over to his mother, and searches her for anything. Any sort of comfort.  Anything other than this bloodied lie his father is telling him. 

 

Because it is. A lie. How could it possibly be true? 

 

“Oh,  _ Thor _ ,” he hears Mother’s voice call distantly, kind and gentle and cutting. He feels her arms wrap around him tightly but softly. Feels her press kisses to his face. 

 

He hears her telling him about how she understands, how he must be lonely sometimes in the palace and how much it must be nice to imagine having a brother. He hears her telling him soothingly about how it's okay to pretend once in a while, but he must not forget reality, and he feels it wash over him like a tide before going back out to sea.

 

He's not listening. Not really. 

 

Just like, apparently, Loki (his brother) isn't real. Not really. 

 

Mother’s hand strokes his hair, and he feels himself relax into it involuntarily. 

 

“Okay,” he hears himself whisper. “I'm sorry.”

 

Thor walks back to his chambers slowly tonight. He half expects to turn a corner and for Loki to jog and catch up with him, or for Loki to jump out of the shadows and frighten him into next year. He doesn't. When he opens his doors and flicks on the light, he thinks that maybe Loki will be already there, lying on his stomach on Thor's bed, reading through scrolls and books and manuscripts. He's not.

 

For a while, Thor finds himself staring numbly out of his window. Alone. It's raining, a stark difference to the bright sunny day earlier. He snorts. How fitting. Loki would have appreciated this. 

 

If he were real.

 

He bathes and changes into his nightwear, and looks at himself in the mirror. Pure cerulean blue eyes blink back, and Thor tries not to imagine any green. How could he have dreamt up a brother? A whole, other person? He rubs at his eyes furiously. 

 

When Thor settles down into his bed for the night, bundled up in his covers, swaths of silk and linen and thick, soft quilts he thinks he sees a flash of black hair in the darkness. His heart seizes in his throat and he thinks maybe—

 

But he's not.

 

* * *

 

 

“You know, I can't help but wish we weren't in this situation so often,” says Loki in a bored voice, “For one, as much as everyone seems to swoon over you, Brother, I really do  _ not _ want to see anything below your torso.”

 

It's too cramped in the bathroom for two people. But it's enough for one.

 

Grunting, Thor zips up the front of his trousers (made up of some thick sort of scratchy material called jeans, apparently) and flushes the toilet. At least those seem relatively the same here as on Asgard. 

 

“You know, I think, if given the appropriate materials, that your Lady—Lady Jane is it? The one that you're sweet on—might actually be able to do it—build her very own Bifrost,” Loki contemplates thoughtfully. 

 

He seems to be in one of those moods again. One of  _ those  _ being annoying. 

 

Thor turns the tap on and begins to wash his hands, lathering the soap into fragrant white bubbles in his hands nicely.

 

“Of course,” his brother continues, and begins to drum his fingers on the basin of the sink, nails making the tapping sound effective, “Even if she did successfully build one, she’d need to know how to use it. How to navigate as to transport the right things to the right places. She is probably better thinking up some new means of travel.” Thor turns off the tap, it's a little squeaky and rusted. He feels a headache building already. “It's dreadfully complicated, more so for Midgard than Asgard I imagine, since they reside in the middle of the world tree, so the trajectories must be—"

 

“ _ Loki! _ ” Thor slams hard on the sink with a loud clang. For once he is maybe grateful he does not have his full strength, for it would undoubtedly have broken if not for it. “Why did you make me say those things?!” He's speaking a bit too loudly perhaps, and maybe too harshly, but he doesn't care. Because he’s sick of Loki’s very existence ruining everything. Why him? Why is it  _ Thor _ that has to see him? Of all people, the crown Prince of Asgard. He breathes heavily and tries not to growl, though he can't quite keep it out If his voice. (It’s not as though Loki can choose, after all.) “If you were trying to help, then you failed. Now what are the mortals going to think? How will they trust me now?”

 

There's a soft knock at the door.

 

Thor stops. Looks at Loki, whose widening  eyes travel slowly towards the door, and then stares at the door as well.

 

“Thor?” It's Lady Jane. “Are you— are you okay in there?”

 

“I am fine, my Lady,” Thor calls out distantly, and hopes he does not sound as strangled as he feels.

 

His brother’s eyes meet his. Such a vivid piercing green, venomous almost. 

 

“You're talking to yourself again,” says Loki, voice flat and toneless. Thor finds himself standing alone, once more.


	2. Part Two

 

 

_ Never doubt that I love you, Brother. _

 

* * *

 

  
  


It's raining. Heavily. And Thor is loathe to admit that it is not his doing, for once. 

 

If only it was.

 

Though he still somehow appears to be stronger than those mortals—Midgardians, his mind corrects, for he, too, is mortal—he is still not the Thor, God of Thunder he was just last week. Nowhere near. 

 

Fat droplets splatter against his face like bullets, and he is no more impervious to the elements than those which surround him. 

 

His muscles strain and ache, and his fingers itch around it, and still it will not answer his call.

 

Mjolnir will not even budge.

 

It is so very apt that it is only rain, and not lightning or thunder. Thor tenses his muscles again and pulls, grunting with effort, though he has already given up. Mjolnir does not greet him like an old friend, but leaves him stranded like a stranger. 

 

He doesn't realise he is screaming until something picks his side and he stops.

 

His head suddenly feels intoxicated and numb, and his vision has become muted and hazy. But there's no time for this, he mustn't give up. He must forge on, even if it is as if he is swimming in marshy bog with one foot tied to an anchor.

 

He blinks hard and tries to shake himself out of it. Tightens his hold on his hammer.

 

Tries to pull.

 

The rain is like a billion glass beads shattering all at once and continuously. Over and over again, pounding against him. It's so very cold. His skin feels like ice and his clothes feel colder, it would be better if his blood did not feel like fire.

 

The water keeps making his hands slip and when he tries to look around it appears as though the ground and the sky have switched places.

 

Another prick, this time his thigh. Thor’s mind feels vaguely hazy and diluted, his brain weighted like lead and tipping over like it cannot balance. It feels as though he is drowning. Suddenly everything is dark, and when he wakes up again, he is surrounded by light. And it is too bright. 

 

He blinks hard. And again. This is… disorienting. 

 

It is a small, simple, brightly lit room, and almost aggressively silver and white. The walls are white. The ceiling is white. The door is white. Norns, even the  _ floor _ is white—quite impractical. The only other things in the room are a steel table and chair, and another one which Thor is currently bound to.

 

Great.

 

He tugs at the restraints. They tug back, biting into his wrists a little. He curses. Why is he never strong enough when it actually seems to matter?

 

“Yes, that is the question, isn't it?”

 

Thor jerks up and looks at his brother. Loki is standing there watching him with his arms folded and a frown on his face—so the usual then.

 

“I didn't have to read your mind, it's written all over your face.” He continues, shrugging. “Why couldn't I lift Mjolnir? Why am I still such a pathetically weak mortal? Et cetera, et cetera.”

 

Well, he isn't wrong. Truth be told, he had expected to just have to find Mjolnir and then everything would be fine. The Midgardians summoned to guard it proved no challenge, but challenge enough that he thought it was his test which might deem him worthy again. Apparently not.

 

“By the way, where are we?” Pausing, Loki looks around, taking in their surrounding. He sniffs. “Wow. Almost obnoxiously plain. I did not think that was something one could do on purpose. And yet—” he spreads his hands. “—Here we are. Remarkable.”

 

Thor is about to, unwisely, dignify that with a response when the door opens.

 

A small man, who Thor recognises as the one who took Lady Jane's research, steps through mildly.  The door clicks shut behind him, undoubtedly locking them inside.

 

Loki accesses him with his gaze, taking in the perfectly pressed suit and the mild mannered gaze. Mild. The only remarkable thing about this man is how unremarkable he is. It's an art.

 

“Hello again,” he says, taking the seat on the other side of the table and quite literally stepping through his brother. “I don’t know if you remember me, Agent Phil Coulson? I'm with SHIELD.” 

 

Agent Phil son of Coul, allegedly, sits relaxed, at perfect ease, leaning back with his arms folded against his chest and his legs crossed. For some inexplicable reason, Thor wants to trust him.

 

“I don't trust him,” scoffs Loki, looking back and forth between them, pursing his lips. “What's SHIELD?” 

 

Thor gives Loki what is hopefully a swift yet subtle glance, but catches the agent’s eyes following his. Oh, well. He won't see anything anyway.

 

“What is SHIELD?” asks Thor, partly for his brother and partly because he should probably know, sitting up and trying his best to tower over the man, despite his disadvantaged position. What? Intimidation has always worked well before.

 

From the corner he hears Loki smack his head with his palm, groaning with exasperation. “You need to make him trust you, Thor, not fear you. Trust.”

 

And though it is not the Aesir way, deception, he remembers the last time he did not listen to his brother and how it landed him here. So he forces himself to shrink back into his seat, and tilt his chin, and blink as though he is bewildered—which in a way, he is.

 

For half a second he thinks he sees a confused expression flit across Phil Cousin’s face, but it's wiped away just as quickly.

 

“Thank you,” grumbles Loki, perhaps a little sulkily, “I told you we can't trust him.”

 

Agent Coulson smiles, open and friendly. “I'm surprised you don't know,” he replies, We’re an agency designed to protect people.” It sounds like an oversimplification, but Thor does not question it.  The man sits up and leans across the table, as though he is entrusting Thor with a secret. “My people are some of the most highly trained professionals in the world. And you made them look like a bunch of minimum wage mall cops.” 

 

And Thor does not know what a “mall cop” is, but it sounds weak, and Thor tries not to look triumphant at the compliment. Midgard’s best cannot even touch him at his worst. Ha!

 

“Don't look so smug,” chides Loki, and there is a smirk on his face. “Clearly, they managed to get you here, didn't they?”

 

He sobers at the reminder, feeling the tug of the cuffs on his wrists again. Of course.

 

“That's hurtful,” continues Agent Coulson, none the wiser. “In my experience, it takes someone who’s received similar training to do what you did to them. Why don't you tell me where you received your training.”

 

Oh where indeed? Asgard is bound from him and he does not even have his strength. Why, he might be dead by the time the AllFather deems him worthy! Aged to death on this Mortal timeline! 

 

For the first time since he arrived here, he feels a wave of resignation wash over him. What's the point? There is no anger left in him—because they were right. He is not a king. He cannot be.

 

Thor does not respond, only stares blankly at the white wall behind the agent.

 

“Pakistan? Chechnya? Afghanistan?”

 

The jumble of words floats past his ears and behind him. Thor isn't listening, too busy biting the inside of his cheek to distract from the way his eyes are stinging.

The air is much to hot and thick and loud. It feels as though he is heaving in cotton.

 

Agent Coulson shrugs, leaning back again. “You strike me more as the soldier of fortune type—where was it? South Africa?”

 

A cool hand settles on his shoulder and he feels himself flinch. Loki's fingers dig into his shoulders hard, the pressure grounding him. Unconsciously, he relaxes into it. 

 

He had decided a while ago, It doesn't matter if Loki isn't real, or if Thor has made him up. He helps, sometimes. And Thor is allowed to pretend he has a brother if he damn well wants to. Nobody else needs to know.

 

“Certain groups pay very well for a good mercenary like you.” Agent Coulson inclines his head, openly assessing him now. “Who are you?”

 

Thor meets his eyes but does not answer. Who is he? He is not Thor, God of Thunder anymore. Hardly even Odinson. Who is he, really?

 

The agent returns his state steadily unfazed, not challenging but somewhat bemused. As though he already knows the outcome and it will be inevitably in his favour.

 

“One way or another, we find our what we need to know. We're good at that.”

 

Something on his wrist starts to bleep, and Agent Coulson turns to look at it. Then, he smooths his tie out, nonplussed, before standing up and tucking the chair into the table, turning his back on him and casually making his way to the door. He turns for a second, regarding him cooly.

 

“Don't go anywhere.”

 

And then the door opens with a hiss, and clicks shut behind him. 

 

Loki turns to him then, with his eyes dark and expression wary. Moves to sit on the table and leans down to bring his face level with Thor's. “Stay calm, Brother,” he says, “Breathe.”

Thor does. Takes a sharp, sudden gasp in and lets it out with a huff. Tries to relax his muscles and the jaw he did not realise has been clenched.

 

“I think—" begins Loki, looking thoughtful, and doesn't finish.

 

Because the space is empty. Thor is alone. 

He always has been.

 

* * *

 

  
  


_ It's probably for the best that we never see each other again. _

 

_ That’s what you always wanted. _

 

* * *

 

 

“You know what doesn't make sense to me?” Loki says, not taking his eyes off of the screen. They are watching the moving pictures on the telly-vision, something about children and magic and pigs. It does really make sense. Still, it's amusing, and Loki seems to find it entertaining.

 

The other humans are not around; Lady Jane is in her lab, Lord Erik has gone away to someplace called Eng-Land, and Lady Darcy apparently has a hot date? Why she feels the need to disclaim the temperature of her date is unknown to Thor, though he has grown familiar and perhaps a little fond of their oddities. Anyway, because Thor is alone, he responds.

 

“Not really, but you are about to tell me anyway, I presume,” he says and chucks another handful of the delightful popped-corn into his mouth.

 

“Well.” His brother pauses in contemplation. “For starters, that. Since I'm just a figment of your overly imaginative mind, how come I don't know your thoughts, and you don't know mine?”

 

Thor shrugs, not really too bothered. It's a conversation they are both well familiar with and have had many times. Each time the outcome is that they just don't know.

 

“And the other thing?” He asks, not taking his eyes off of the screen. 

 

The children, Harry and Hermione, are in the middle of running from this man-wolf creature and Thor does not want to miss a moment of it. Midgardians, though they do not have the means to use it, are surprisingly creative with magic.

 

“Riddle me this, Thor.” It's a phrase Loki has caught onto using recently—probably from the Midgardians. “Why were you were apparently worthy of Mjolnir three months ago, whilst you were attacking Jotunheim, mind you. The very thing which made you unworthy in the first  place,” he adds, dismissing Thor's wince at the subject, “Yet now, having harmed nobody except those silly little SHIELD agents, you are unworthy? Why, just last week you helped Lady Darcy out, taking care of those orphans she sometimes visits! Surely you are a better man than before, when you were worthy.”

 

Thor frowns, pausing the moving pictures just as Harry is about to cast a spell. 

 

He's… never thought about it that way before. Huh?

 

(Well, he supposes he's thought about it now given that he brought it up… to himself. Yeah, this whole deal is confusing.)

 

“Go on,” he prompts, interested now, turning his body to face his brother.

 

Loki chews his lip, a rare display of openness. “Well, for starters, what does a hammer know of worthiness? No matter how powerful it is, Mjolnir is not sentient and has nothing to measure your worthiness. The only thing I can think of is some enchantment the maker must have put on it. And—let's be real Thor—an old dwarf, no matter how skilled, is never going to have a have some high moral ground, not a set way to measure your morality. And, not to bring us back to the previous point of how you were worthy one second and unworthy the next. All because the AllFather said so.” He lets the statement hang, rather deliberately.

 

Thor winces, swallows and find that he cannot.

 

“What do you— What are you saying?” he asks, unsure. There's a prickling feeling of dread starting to culminate, and he struggles to force it back.

 

“I'm saying that you will only get Mjolnir back when  _ Father _ deems you worthy, not when you have ascended into this fixed plane of worthiness that we once thought. Somehow, it must be him that is in control of the wielded of the weapon.”

 

His brother, though he is the who worked all this out, looks rather at a loss of what to do. Which makes sense, seeing as Thor does not quite know himself.

 

Thor takes the remote and presses the triangular button:  _ play  _ (according to Lady Darcy, though he is sure none of the characters are  _ playing _ .) A bitter taste rises in his throat and he doesn't know why.

 

Perhaps it's because that means you were never truly  _ worthy _ . Not really, except in your father's eye; which was blinded by his love for his son.  _ Until you restarted a war,  _ his mind so helpfully adds. 

 

Perhaps it is because he knows now that Father does not truly see him as worthy. He had already known before, but now the confirmation of it is… that Father  _ chooses  _  not to see him as worthy.

 

“What are you going to do, Thor?” Loki says, quietly.

 

It's moments like this which remind Thor that he imagined a younger brother, not a twin or an elder. Someone, that despite their intellect, looked to Thor for answers.

 

“I don't know, Loki,” he replies, numbly. 

 

And maybe it's that. That Thor does not  _ know _ . He has no idea of how to get back his father’s favour. He's never had to before. He has no idea on how he can get them home. No idea if what will make him worthy. 

 

He's never had to know before.

 

Midgard is nice, but it is not home. It does not have his friends, or his room, or his mother. It does not have the people adoring him at every turn. Don't get him wrong, he loves Midgard now and all its weird quirks and delicious food. Loves Lady Jane and Lady Darcy and Lord Erik.

 

But they are not home. He thinks perhaps, it might be, but then he’d have to let go.

 

Thor doesn't want to let go.

 

Beside him, Loki shifts on the couch, fluffing up his cushion as though he needs the comfort, and wrinkles his nose at something on the screen, like he often does when he finds something distasteful. He almosts laughs a how real it all makes him seem.

 

He squints his eyes a little, blinks a few times. 

 

Loki is still there.

 

And for now, at least, Thor has his brother.

 

* * *

 

 

The story is a little different than what Thor is used to, but he finds himself liking it more because of that. Apparently, in this tale, the dragon is the  _ hero. _ It protects the treasure, a small but powerful babe, from those that wish to harm it.

 

Thor is absolutely enraptured by it, and Loki tells it so very well.

 

“Thor?” He hears his mother calling from the other side of the door, “Who are you talking to?” 

 

Loki’s eyes meet his, wide and panicked and pushes Thor to his feet, scrambling.

 

“Nobody, Mother.” He hears a dubious sigh, and adds an, “Honest.”

 

From where he stands, Loki rolls his eyes and Thor knows it means he has not gotten any better at lying.

 

The door pushes open and Mother pokes her head through the slit. She gives him a once over, taking in the scene. Loki is there snickering in the corner, but he supposes to her, it must just look like Thor is sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, talking to himself.

 

(Which he supposes is true.)

 

“Are you okay, my darling?” she says, coming to sit beside him on the bed. And Loki has to shift away, because apparently he doesn't like when people move through him. He keeps flashing furtive glances to Thor and his mother.

 

“I'm okay, Mother. Why?” 

 

Frigga purses her lips and twists her hands together. He sees Loki do the same behind them. After a second, her arm goes to rest on his shoulders and she kisses the top of his head lightly.

 

She shakes her head. “No, it's nothing. You know I like to worry. I'm your mother, Thor.”

 

“I know. It's your job.”

 

He smiles, indulging her and himself for awhile in just the silence of each other's company. 

 

“I love you, my son. See you at dinner.”

 

“And I love you, Mother,” he replies, as custom. 

 

Then she stands. A softness gracing her features, making her look younger. The door closes behind her softly, leaving him alone again, and he breathes a sigh of slight relief.

 

“I love you, my son,” croons Loki mockingly, as he crawls back to his position on the bed.

 

Thor shoves him lightly, “Shut up, Loki. You aren't even real.”

 

Loki pauses, then grins back widely, sharp teeth glinting off the light. “Oh, I know,” he replies. 

 

The rest if the evening is spent with little further incident. When prompted, Loki continues with his tale about the dragon, though Thor thinks that it perhaps does not seem as animated as it did before, or, when he inquires about it, almost too much. Subdued and tense in most moments;  wild and over exaggerated the next. 

 

But it's fine. Loki often gets days like this. These off days.

 

And Thor does not bother to ask why—it's all in his head, anyway.

 

* * *

 

  
  


The light is too bright and too yellow when his eyelids finally flutter open. There is the distinct, medicinal, herb-y smell which comes whenever he visits the healing rooms, so that is where he must be.

 

...why?

 

Mother is beside his bed, talking urgently to Healer Eir in hushed tones, but Thor cannot really hear because there is a high pitched whine flooding his ears, a long whistle emanating from background wavelength.

 

He tries to remember the last things that happened. He was, he was playing something. With Balder. His cousin. Something… something… and Thor was hiding. Hide and seek! Yes, that was it. 

 

It had been a warm, sunny day, because it's almost spring, and they had been playing Hide and Seek in the gardens.

 

Mother’s eyes drifts towards him and she lets out a startled gasp when she sees he has woken, instantly at his side. Her hands clutch his tightly, and she kisses it gently, tenderly, with all her love as a mother. The skin around her eyes, which seem to glitter, are smudged red. She lets out a wet sort of sigh. Has she been crying?

 

“Thor? How do you feel, my darling?” she asks intently, eyes running over him anxiously.

 

“My head hurts,” Thor replies honestly, “And my hand. It feels…  _ cold _ .”

 

Mother smiles at him tearily and kisses his hand again. “Do you remember what happened?”

 

He nods slowly—his neck is stiff as well— and says, “Yeah, I think so. Me and Balder—Balder and I,” he corrects quickly, “Were playing Hide and Seek in the gardens, near where the biggest apple tree is, and Balder was the seeker so I was hiding. So I thought, because it was very sunny, that the last place he'd think to look for me was inside, which is very clever, so I sneaked inside the palace through the lower, back entrance and…” he trails off. Mother's smile has slipped off her face and faded into a frown. “What?”

 

“No,” she says firmly, “No, you weren't. You were playing Tig with Balder by the fountains, remember? And then you collapsed. That's how we found you, Balder ran to get help.”

 

Thor shakes his head. That never happened. Sure, they were going to, but it had been too wet to run without slipping. They were definitely playing Hide and Seek, because Thor remembers sneaking down and into some passageways he had never been before, right?

 

“No, I'm sure that it was—"

 

Mother strokes the top of his head, hand carding through his hair softly. It tingles a bit, as though  _ magic _ , before coming to rest on his forehead warmly.

 

“What are you sure of, my dear?”

 

And…  _ oh _ . Oh yeah! Thor blinks in realisation. He must have been thinking of the day before. Now he remembers. Yes, they’d been playing Tig… because they'd wanted to the day before but couldn't... by the fountains. With Balder. Of course, they had. And it had been too hot, so he'd been feeling a little faint, and then…

 

“Right. That's right. Sorry, I must have gotten muddled up. Yes, we were playing Tig. I remember now.”

 

Mother gives a sigh of relief, relaxing in her seat. “That's all right, Thor. You hit your head. It’s perfectly normal. I'm glad,” she gives another kiss to his hand and then on his cheek. “I'm glad you're all right.”

 

Thor is still tired, so Mother sits back and allows him to rest. His head hurts and  _ his hand is cold. _

 

* * *

 

  
  


Thor has been on Midgard for just over a year now, and he has aged something akin to fifty. At least on Aesir terms—everyone else seems to think he looks fine. (Or  _ fiiine,  _ as Lady Darcy would say.)

 

As now, he is working with SHIELD and Erik Selvig on the Tesseract. How they came to possess it he does not know, since it rightfully belongs to Asgard. And well, actually it's more like Loki is working with SHIELD and Erik Selvig on the Tesseract. Thor is just there to relay what Loki says and to take the credit. 

 

Though, technically it is  _ him _ that is thinking up all of these clever possibilities. Just— he isn't going to go down that path again. It's a train of thoughts that never seem to cease and will probably be forever unanswered.

 

Dr Jane Foster (as he knows to call her now) and Lady Darcy (who says she likes the title) are still in New Mexico. SHIELD had reached out to them too, but Jane had said she wanted to continue her work there, on the Einstein-Rosen Bridges. But that's okay. Sometimes they can communicate by doing this thing called  _ Skype  _ calling, so it's not so bad.

 

SHIELD remains convinced that the Tesseract is just some energy source, which makes Loki splutter and roll his eyes. 

 

“Energy source.” He scoffs. “It is not something so… simplistic. It's door. A way to open pathways, an infinite amount of pathways to anywhere, and SHIELD wants to use it to create  _ guns _ . Primitive, close-minded creatures.” 

 

Yeah, Loki gets quite a bit more aggressive than he has any right being, but he seems more engaged now. And though, for some reason, Thor does not understand a word of what he says, it pleases him to see him that way.

 

However, at the moment Loki is not here and Thor really needs him.

 

“Hey,” says Erik, nudging him with a pad of paper, “Can you look over these equations for me?”

 

“Uh,” Thor replies intelligently,“I, uh—sure.” He takes the paper from him, fumbling, and stares blankly at the page, willing some of Loki's smarts to come. They don't. “It, um, looks fine. But I shall hold onto them, for now, so I can look over them again later. I'm just a little busy right now.”

 

Erik gives him an assessing look and narrows his eyes. “You're literally playing Candy Crush on your phone, Thor.”

 

Ah. Yes. 

 

Though Erik is, like, half the size of Thor, and does not have nearly as many years, Thor feels rather like a small child being scolded. His mouth gapes open like a fish and no words come out.

 

So it is rather lucky timing when the Tesseract seems to… spark. And then glows sharply, burning painfully bright into his retinas, roaring. He stumbles back at the force of it.

 

For a moment, he cannot see. Everything looks as though it has been swallowed by the sun and ascended heavenward. He can hear noise, clatters of instruments and metallic screeching against the floor. Panicked shouts from the others and harsh curses. 

 

Thor just lays there, squeezing his eyes shut, and waits for it to subside. 

 

“Thor.” He hears a voice, and a hand pulling uselessly at his shoulder. “Thor. Get up. Thor, get up!”

 

“Mmm” he mumbles, dazed and slurring. He looks around blearily. “Loki?”

 

“Yes, you fool. It's me,” his brother replies, “Now come on, get up! We're being attacked.”

 

It takes a moment for the words to register in his mind, but he's on his feet as soon as they do.

 

On the other side of the room, a lone being stands, cloaked in armour and hiding his face. He holds a spear—no a sceptre—in one hand and the Tesseract in the other. Thor ducks behind one of the bigger machines, and observes silent as he can.

 

His heart is beating heavily in his chest, the familiar feeling of stepping into battle takes over his veins. 

 

Outside, he can hear the beginnings of a storm starting to simmer.

 

“You,” rasps the being, pointing his finger. His voice seems to be echoing from every corner, a hissing whisper. Thor follows the finger, and it leads him to the direction of Erik, standing there wide-eyes and quivering, mouth slack. “Come here.”

 

Erik does not move, just stares and grows paler and paler. 

 

“I said come here,  _ mortal _ .”

 

When Erik begins to stumble forward, Thor feels Loki grip his wrist, pulling him back harshly. He had not even realized his feet have moved. 

 

Thor tries to yank it back, but Loki’s grip is a clamped tight and strong on his wrist. He looks desperate, more panicked than perhaps he's ever seen him.

 

Perhaps it is transferable because Thor feels the air around him crackle like static.

 

“Thor, don't,” he pleads, holding tighter.

 

But Erik is Thor’s friend and he must do  _ something _ . There must be something he can do.

 

He hears a crash, and he tears his attention away from his brother and back to their attacker. Out of nowhere a bullet strikes through the air around the being. It hits some sort of barrier and falls limp with a flash.

 

The being smiles, inclines it's head a little. 

 

“I,” it speaks again, “am the Other. And you will kneel.” 

 

The sceptre in its hand rises slowly, emanating a soft blue glow, which grows sharper and brighter. The air inside the room seems to weigh on him like a heavy blanket, sizzling. 

 

The Other slams the sceptre to the ground and a wave of energy floods the space. A force, flowing and fluid and but unyielding.  

Unnatural and cutting.

 

Overhead, a clap of thunder permeates the building, reaching Thor’s ears, accented by crackling lightning.

 

Somehow, the familiarity of it fuels him. His hand wrenches away from Loki’s, snatched back towards him.

 

“ _ Thor _ ,” says Loki again, and there's something different in his voice this time, “Thor, your  _ hammer _ . Mjolnir _ , call it!” _

 

It's been over a year since Thor arrived in Midgard, and Thor has lost count of the number of times he has called Mjolnir and received no answer, so really, why would it be any different now? He has not done anything that might be considered particularly worthy, not in the eyes of his father.

 

But he focuses, reaches inwards, within him. Energy is zipping through his blood and dancing off his skin, wild and frenzied. His fingers itch and tremble.

 

Mjolnir is in New Mexico, hundreds of miles away. He holds out his hand and is there, with it, the path it takes across the land, arcing over everything. Feels it pulling back, responding. Tugging back gently on the tether they share together.

 

He hears it wrecking, smashing and crashing through everything. Loud and brash and announcing its own presence with as much fanfare as it likes.

 

As it should be.

 

And then it's within his hands, held snugly and perfectly in his grip. Its song, singing sweetly to him. Humming and thrumming excitedly. 

 

He smiles grimly, turning it slowly with practiced ease. It's been over a year.

 

Alas.

 

* * *

 

 

_   
_ _ Now you see me, Brother. _

 

* * *

 

  
  


Thor has not seen Loki in two weeks. Not since he realised he had never seen Loki at all. Not really.

 

So when, two weeks later, he wakes up and catches sight of Loki again, sitting at his desk, head bent over a book like always, he ignores him. Gets up out of his bed, washes and changes into his clothes for breakfast with Mother and Father and for any activities that might take place over the course of the day. His lightweight trousers, dress shirts, his dark red vest. He does not offer even a glance when he hears the soft shuffle of footsteps following him. 

 

It will pass, he tells himself. This will pass. 

 

Eventually, if he ignores it enough, Loki will go away, his own mind will cease haunting him, everything will be fine again. He ignored the way that makes makes something in his heart freeze at the prospect, and his mind reminds him that he's been seeing Loki for longer than he can even remember.

 

“Good morning, Thor,” he hears it say, and forces his eyes to merely shift over it. To stop to acknowledging it. “Good morning, Thor,” the voice repeats, more loudly and forceful this time.

 

Perhaps Father is right and he should go visit Healer Eir again.

 

He leaves the room quickly, but is careful not to make it seem as though he is running from someone— _ something _ , he corrects. The doors slam shut behind him heavily, and he hurries onwards. 

 

As ever, as it has for almost all his life, it persists.

 

_ No. No more of this please _ , he thinks. 

 

“Thor?” And oh, clever that. It has such a confused tone, and the way it cracks slightly at the end… “ _ Thor?” _

 

Perhaps Thor has been cursed. He's been told many a tale of princes being curse, so perhaps this is his one to conquer. He almost smiles at that; a real quest for Thor and his friends! Brilliant!

 

Though he can still hear the footsteps behind him, there is no more talking, only the occasional sigh. Satisfied, Thor forces himself to think of other things, in the hope that this will cease haunting him. 

 

His parents greet him lightly when he enters the room, though he is not blind to the ever present concern on their faces which has been a constant lately. And it reminds him if the looks they shared still, when he thought he did have a brother. 

 

Thor clenches his jaw and smiles widely.

 

“Good morning,” he calls, keeping his voice bright.

 

“Good morning, Son,” replies Father.

 

Mother beams, ever radiant from where she sits at his side. “Good morning, Thor.”

 

“Good morning.” He hears a whisper prickling his neck.

 

They ignore it as, Thor supposes, they must always have done. Come to think if it, he has never heard Mother or Father utter a single  _ good morning _ to Loki, and why would they? There is nobody for them to even say it to. Following their lead, he continues on to the table without another pause.

 

“It is a bright day today, is it not, Thor?” says Mother, looking outside.

 

“You should go out,” adds Father, “Play with your friends.”

 

To be perfectly honest, Thor doesn't really feel like playing with his friends. He feels like staying here, with Mother and Father, or going on long strolls to the Bifrost to visit Heimdall. But Thor’s friends, he remembers, are the only thing Thor can think of that seems to make Loki go away. Loki, who seems to twist in and out of his mind like a snake, but always slither away when they get here. Besides, he always finds himself having the most fun with them. So Thor nods and agrees and does his best not to note the way Loki stands behind him like a shadow, instead of sitting next to him like usual.

 

“I hear your cousin Balder is in the city, Thor, with your Uncle Vili. Perhaps you could introduce them to your friends,” suggests Father, though it is not really a suggestion and more a command.

 

“Of course,” Thor replies. He has grown tired of this conversation already, but he dreads being alone, so he continues to eat slowly, picking at his food piece by piece. 

 

There are pastries laid out on the table, both sweet and savoury. Jams, cold meats, oats. All in all, a great and very full selection. Thor deems to sample at least one of each. (He does not pay any mind that he already knows how each of them taste, having eaten this exact meal once a day.)

 

Thor has not seen Balder in quite some time, but he is nice. They talk and catch up a little before meeting with the others. He is a little older than Thor, by only a decade perhaps, and he is at a higher level of training than Thor is, though he claims that he does not want to be a warrior, and instead a teacher. A master of his very own training guild. 

 

Not the slightest bit jealous, he nods along and encourages him. 

 

A little further up ahead, the ghost haunting Thor’s mind walks backwards facing them. A longing stare pierces Thor’s vision like a thorn he cannot get rid of. 

 

“You will like my friends,” says Thor, eager to move along.

 

Balder smiles, gently. He is a very gentle person. Very pure and good, no doubt. “Tell me about them.”

 

Thor shrugs, kicking his heels out in front of him with every step. “Well,” he begins, “there's Fandral. He's very good with swords. He's all right.”

 

Briefly, he allows his eyes to flick up from where they’re fixed at the ground. Still there. But Loki is just looking at the ground too, fists clenched, though his eyes sometimes slip to their direction.

 

He pulls his eyes back to Balder, “Then there's Sif, a surprisingly fearsome opponent for a girl,” He pulls a face. “Very good with—well, just about everything so far. And then Hogun, excels at hand to hand combat and shields.” He pauses to take in Balder’s assessment. “All in all, a very good bunch, I should think.”

 

Balder frowns, silent for a moment. “Yes but… what about  _ them,  _ though? What are they like… what are their  _ characters _ like? Surely they do not exist only in the way they fight.”

 

That takes Thor aback. He… hasn't thought about it. In fact, most of the time, if they are not fighting each other or their imagined beasts, everything else they do is just in wait of that.

 

Up ahead Loki snorts. “Ah, yes,” Thor hears, “What  _ other _ redeeming qualities do they have, hmm?”

 

He stops short, and Balder almost trips at the suddenness of it. 

 

That isn't like him, is it? He  _ likes  _ his friends. They are funny and loyal and they make Thor happy. He has such good memories with them. So why is his mind spewing such things, even in some projected perverse vessel? 

 

“Um,” he replies, “They're very nice, yes. Good, good friends. And…” for some reason his mind seems to be lagging behind, “Fandral, Sif and Hogun are very good, nice friends.”

 

“I see.”

 

Frustratingly, by the time they reach the others near the gates of the training guild, Thor still has not shaken his shadow. It's like a limpet, he thinks almost viciously, clinging onto a rock and leeching on. 

Perhaps he should have known it would not be so easy. After all, apart those two weeks of respite, and an occasional few days before that, it's been a constant for almost all of Thor’s life. A droning dialogue of straying conscience that has followed Thor everywhere.

 

_ The mind is a curious and complex thing,  _ Healer Eir had said,  _ and sometimes we do not always have the means to explain it.  _

 

Of course, she had also told him not to worry about it.

 

“My friends!” he calls, by way of greeting, and runs up ahead forgetting momentarily his other companion. Balder, that is. 

 

Thor's friends welcome Balder with enthusiasm, all under the impression that the more the merrier. And, as what Balder seems to do most, he smiles radiantly, filling the room with light. It's almost a little irritating. His friends all seem charmed though.

 

The plan today is to do a little bit of light training, head back to the palace for a small lunch, show Balder around the grounds, and then prepare for the feast in celebration of Prince Vili and his son visiting the city. It's supposed to be a nice day.

 

The training grounds are open plan, and its a hot day. The sun is shining bright on his skin. Usually, this would serve to energize him, soaking it up and making him more alert. But instead, it makes him feel strangely more lethargic. His hands grip the heavy hilt of his sword and it seems to weigh him down. His arms feel like the bones have been hollowed, flimsy and weak.

 

Hogun, his opponent for the day, watches him. He sees him frown and his eyes following the sweat that drips off Thor's  face. When Hogun finally strikes, he sees him pulling back too early. 

 

Thor grits his teeth.

 

“Why are you holding back, friend?” He manages to get out.

 

Hogun does not answer, just shrugs and gives a him another assessing look.

 

On the other side of the arena, Sif is fighting Balder. She looks like she always does. Fierce, striking. But the smirk that is usually on her face is gone. There is an intense look of concentration on her face. As though, finally, she has a worthy opponent. 

 

As usual, Fandral is up near the water stand, talking about himself, probably. Or about his father.

 

The shadow whelps just as the sword hits his face and Thor goes flying. Later, Thor will blame it on the sun being in his eyes, and not his undisciplined mind. 

 

As now, though, his eyes focus on Hogun, crouching over him, a concerned expression on his face. Except they focus on Loki first.

 

“You're distracted, Thor. Let's take a break,” says Hogun, taking his hand and offering him up. 

 

He accepts, nodding gratefully.

 

Hogun is the sort of friend, Thor thinks, who never truly has to ask, but always will. And who always seems to know what's best. It's part of the reason why he likes him so much. The others are more outgoing, more loud in their loyalty—like himself probably—but Hogun is quiet and measured. The one you can always, always rely on, for what you need anyways, not always what you want.

 

They turn back to the rest of their friends, Fandral is waving at them from afar, and they spot Sif and Balder, both on their backsides, laughing and struggling to get up.

 

Hogun drags him off to one of the stands to grab them some water.

 

The sun still feels too warm on his skin. But somehow, it's okay.

 

The palace has not changed in centuries. Thor doubts it has changed in many millennia. And Balder has been before, so it's not really that exciting, more like a little refresher. It's afternoon and they're headed to the kitchens so they can all eat and walk at the same time, and despite how achy Thor feels, he quickened his pace, just a little.

 

Something is nipping at his heels.

 

He walks a little faster.

 

Later that night at the feast, the shadow is still following him. Though at least, with so much noise and so many people about to talk to, Thor feels sufficiently distracted from it's gaze.

 

Balder is seated beside him, talking animatedly to Mother about the things they've done today. One of Father's friends, Lord-something-or-other, is trying to make conversation with Thor, whilst Thor himself is just trying to eat his turkey leg in peace, thank you very much. He’s prattling in his ear about something military and promotions that Thor can say he doesn't really understand, but a disturbing amount of food is flying from his mouth, and quite frankly it is gross.

 

“Excuse me,” he says, trying to stare anywhere but the chunks of meat stuck between his teeth and the hairs in his beard, “I have to go find my friends.”

 

He stands up, ignoring Mother's disapproving stare and footsteps that trail after him.

 

He's had, overall, not a great day.

 

  1. Stupid Loki and his stupid, stupid mind—and why can't Thor be _normal?_
  2. He likes Balder but why does he have to be better than Thor at almost _everything_ , it seems. It's not envy, probably, but _Norns,_ they might as well make Balder Crown Prince!
  3. Training today just… really _sucked_.
  4. Whoever that man was. Honestly, Thor is candid enough to admit he is a child. So why do the boring adults insist on speak with him instead of Father, as though Thor cares?



Okay, so, well it's not an extensive list. He’s sure there are others who must have had a worse day, but he's definitely not had a good day.

 

A few tables away, Thor thinks he spies Fandral and Hogun talking to a rather large bearded man, and he does his best to wade through the masses. 

 

Upon spotting him, they wave him over and greet him eagerly.

 

“This is Volstagg,” says Fandral eagerly, “He came of age not too long ago.”

 

“Oh? When?”

 

Volstagg shrugs, but smiles heartily, “About half a decade ago,” and takes a large gulp of the mead in his cup.

 

It takes only a few minutes of conversation for Thor to decide that, like his friends—even Hogun, it seems—he rather likes Volstagg. Unlike the other adults Thor has talked to, Volstagg does not talk down at them, he listens and responds to everything Thor says, and shares similar interests with them. Namely, fighting, food, and good times.

 

And the adult stuff he talks about is not the boring adult stuff. Which is nice.

 

They talk for a very long time, and Thor thinks they have made a new friend. There is a large clock in the banquet hall, with ornate gold hands, and by the time Thor’s attention has strayed enough to glance at it, over two hours have passed since they have been talking. For once, Thor finds he does not mind it. Not at all. It seems like even too little a time to have passed. 

 

“The secret?” chuckles Volstagg, “I guess it's just an acquired taste. Maybe try it again when you're older.” He gestures at his drink and takes another pointed sip. 

 

“Hmm,” he continues, “Maybe you'd try some cider instead, if you are so intent.” 

 

“I've never tried that before,” replies Thor keenly.

 

“Nor I,” says Fandral.

 

“Nor I,” says Hogun.

 

So, Volstagg motions a nearby servant to fetch them three small cups of fruit cider for them, and one large for himself, of course. 

 

“I feel as though I should ask your mothers’ for permission first,” he remarks wryly, turning his head to his side, as though he is telling a secret. Then he throws his head back and lets out a peal of laughter, clapping Thor hard on the back. “Now imagine that: me asking the AllMother permission to give her son cider!”

 

Admittedly, it is quite an amusing thought, and even Hogun lets slip a smile.

 

Volstagg is right, of course. The cider is  _ much _ more bearable than the mead, though still not great. But Thor can't quite let go of the first time he tried to drink something grown up—Father's mead. 

 

_ “Delicious, _ ” Thor hears himself say, and he can't quite tell if the reason his mouth feels so very bitter and dry is the taste, or that he can hear another voice repeating the exact same.

 

After another while, though, Thor finds himself turning around—his side feeling oddly empty. It might be because it is.

 

There is no relief in this, only a hollow feeling left behind. Numb and dull. A shallow ache.

 

Loki is gone.

 

Again.

 

Finally.

 

* * *

 

 

There's something under the bed.

 

He's sure of it. 

 

Father always tells Thor not to pay attention to the fairy tales except from the lessons they teach him, but Thor’s nursemaids all tell him that if he does not eat his vegetables the Frost Giants will get him. 

 

...And Thor has not eaten his vegetables today.

 

He holds his breath. Something sounds like it’s scratching on the spruce wood of his bed frame.

 

Thor squeezes his eyes shut, and pulls the covers tighter over his head, as though this will shield him from whatever beasts might lurk beneath.

 

There's his wooden sword, not too far from the bed, maybe about four steps away. Perhaps he can…

 

Another noise echoes beneath him. And this time, Thor does not block it out, but tries to listen intently as he can. If he is to defeat the monster, he must remain vigilant. 

 

He lays as still as he can, and prepares himself to leap out of bed to find his weapon, adrenaline pulsing.

 

_ Shhh _ … he tells himself,  _ Listen. _

 

He doesn't breathe.

 

Something soft whimpers beneath him. Small and broken and weak. Faint cries and tiny gurgles. 

 

Thor frowns. That sounds… wrong. 

 

His arms move to shift open the covers to check, before his brain catches up. 

 

A trick. It must be a trick. 

 

In almost all the stories, the villains try to trick the heroes. Foul play for the cowards they are.

 

But he will not be bested.

 

Another little cry. Or a yawn, perhaps?

 

To distract him whilst the beast is preparing to strike?

 

Thor tenses, and readies himself. And then he flings back the blankets and makes a break towards his sword. One foot behind the other.

 

It's unfortunate when his tangled sheets catch his left foot, and his hold on the floor slips. He land with a heavy thump. 

 

The room is almost completely dark, save a tinge of silver, escaping from through window. From under his bed, the cries seem to get louder, mewling and keening wetly, the sounds echoing off the wall of his room.

 

Thor's heart is thudding in his ears. He can't—he cannot breathe. 

 

Around him, everything seems so still, too still, and the air feels too thick, like swimming in clear honey. 

 

Slowly, he allows his head to turn to the direction under the bed, a shadowy landscape where may hide any sort of loathsome creature. 

 

Its pitiful wails grow.

 

He squints as his vision adjusts to the darkness. It seems to tug him in. Somewhere amidst the darkness, his eyes catch on something glinting.  

 

Bright red eyes stare back, blinking widely, innocently, and flash green.

 

Something is under Thor’s bed. 

 

It might not be a monster.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Are you ever going to not fall for that, Brother? _

 

* * *

 

  
  


Thor wakes up, still feeling stuffed and drained from the feast yesterday. He looks around.

 

The sun is already streaming bright into the room, warm and gold. It must be late morning already. Someone has taken to laying out clean clothes for today—a servant, probably. 

 

And Loki is there, sat at his desk.

 

This time, he is not reading. He is watching Thor intently.

 

Briefly, their eyes meet. 

 

Thor winces, and both of them look away just as quickly.

 

He hears a quiet sigh.

 

It's too late for Thor to close his eyes, roll over and feign sleep, so he just lays there, eyes turned away, still facing him, unsure what to do.

 

It is just, he reminds himself once more, a product of an overactive brain. Something which he has created in his mindscape and should be able to control. If he wills it hard enough, it should disappear. 

 

His eyes flicker back for a second, just to check. 

 

Nope, still there.

 

Loki, however, has taken to looking at his hands, so he does not acknowledge it.

 

The problem is, probably, that he can't quite bring himself to. He could force it, of course, but somehow that feels wrong, he doesn't really  _ want  _ to. 

 

Perhaps that is a whole other issue.

 

There's a sudden knock on the door, and Thor flinches back.

 

“Come in?” He calls, his gaze avoiding Loki like what seems to have become the norm. 

 

Balder peeks his head through the door, smiling. “Good morning, Cousin.”

 

“Good morning, Balder,” he replies, rubbing his eyes, “Tell Father I shall be down for breakfast shortly?”

 

He chuckles a little, “Of course, although you may want to hurry. I have a large appetite, and my father even more!”

 

When the door shuts again, and he is alone (again) he sits up. 

 

He begins to pull on his clothes, leather hunting gear—perhaps they have plans to go out today? Usually he has his lessons with his tutors. He shrugs. A little deviation from routine will be nice. Especially since arithmetic is a particular brand of mind-numbingly dull. Worse than Father’s lectures, even.

 

He hears a cough behind him. A clearing of throats, perhaps. Light. Unnecessary. 

 

This time, Thor sighs.

 

Despite all his earlier efforts, this morning and yesterday, and despite his resistance, or perhaps in spite of it, Thor finds himself swiveling around on his feet. It's almost like the snapping of a rubber band.

 

Or—no… that's not quite right.

 

More like the breaking of a dam.

 

Yes, much better.

 

So it's like the breaking of a dam, spilling over and flooding the delicate ecosystem beneath. 

 

“You're not real,” he says, and it sounds weak to his own ears. “You're not real,” he says, again. With conviction. “You're not real.”

 

It takes a while to realise it is not the ground that is shaking, not the walls, but himself. 

 

Loki, for all his clever words and silver tongue, just shrugs. Despondent.

 

“So you do see me.”

 

The words bubble up out of Thor's lips before he can even register them, much less catch them. And they keep flowing.

 

“Of course I see you!” And there is a white noise rushing through his head. “I've always seen you, and nobody else! Nobody else because, you know, I've finally figured it out. You aren't real. You're not here. You don't matter.”

 

For some inexplicable reason, Thor feels a familiar burn of irritation. Anger. 

 

At himself.

 

Ridiculous, isn't it?

 

Loki does not even look at him, does not even spare him a glance. His eyelids are closed, he has his arms folded, and he's swaying, like he's in some sort of trance. 

 

Which he isn't. Loki isn't anything. 

 

_ It _ isn't anything.

 

Which is quite the point.

 

“Why are you still here? Why don't you leave? Why do I still see you?!”

 

Loki— _ it _ —inclines its head, and smiles wryly. When it opens its eyes, they look so very bitter.

 

“Why should I know? Surely I should be asking you that,” replies Loki pointedly.

 

“Shut up! Leave me alone. Shut up! You know I had to speak to the healers because of you! Father half thinks I have mind-sickness; and maybe I do. Talking to myself, seeing things which are not there, actually  _ believing _ —for  _ years _ — that you do. I don't know why you exist; you  _ don't _ , and I don't know why it feels like you do.”

 

He's breathing heavily, raggedly. Blood rushing to the front of his face.

 

Loki spreads its hands, and it looks so natural—so true, so casual yet tense. Thor wants to throw up.

 

“Does it matter? You are the one who can control me, after all. Though, I admit it was nice pretending I was real—if I can admit to experiencing  _ nice. _ ”

 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he demands roughly.

 

“Were you ever going to tell yourself?” Loki fires back.

 

And Thor pauses, the heat in his brain halting momentarily, as he tries to think past these last few weeks, from before, any memory, any recollection of thoughts, unconsciousness, even just a feeling, which hinted the true nature of Loki’s continued presence in his life or lack thereof. He can think of none. 

 

All this time, he truly believed Loki was real, and Loki—a part of his mind—had known it was not. 

 

Slowly, he shakes his head. Even though he's just overslept his recommended hours of sleep, he feels himself limp, and strangely dizzy. Like his skin is buzzing yet asleep, and his face and tongue feel like rubber and lead and cotton, simultaneously. His stomach churns uncomfortably.

 

“Just,” he hears himself say faintly, barely within hearing and yet too loud,”—Just go ‘way.”

 

“I can  _ try _ .”

 

The loose floor beneath his feet tilts, shifting and unbalanced like a rolling dice. Everything around him is suddenly sideways. The ground is kissing his chin. His face is on the floor and even though he is conscious, he cannot see. 

 

It's like a black, static veil, is pervading his eyesight and smothering him.

 

His head hurts, dull yet cracking, and something wet dribbles down the back of his neck.

 

He just lies there. In probably some curled pile on floor. A smudge of limbs. His body feels like a swarm of flies buzzing and stinging at each other. 

 

He should probably get help.

 

A weak sort of whining sound is forced from his throat, and he pushes it out as loud as he can. Which is not very loud, to be honest, but loud enough to make his head feel even lighter.

 

The floor beneath him pounds, and briefly, somehow, he manages to acknowledge the doors slamming open. A shadow falls over the static, and Thor can barely make out the fuzzy outline of whichever servant has been fortunate enough to find him.

 

Norns, he must look like a right mess. Some crown prince of Asgard he is. Briefly, Thor wonders if his vision will ever return, or if he will lose his sight forever, but he pushes the thought forcefully away. 

 

Worrying, Fandral had once told him, only meant you suffered twice.

 

If only he could force some other parts of his mind away this easily.

 

By the time his sight has (thankfully) returned, he is no longer in his room, but in the healing wards. The sun is passed it's halfway point in the sky. How long has he been there?

 

Mother sits at his side, holding his hand, dozing gently, but there are clear frown lines drawn onto her face.

 

And, funnily enough, Loki is gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Thor rubs at his temples. He's been in this meeting for  _ far _ too long, and he probably doesn't have to pay much attention anyway. 

 

Tony Stark, is still going on about things they can do with the sceptre—as though the mortals haven't already learnt their lesson about meddling from the  _ Tesseract _ . Besides, they shouldn't be doing this now. They should be coming up with a plan to rescue Erik (and the missing agents, of course), not discussing some glowy pebble! Which, most likely will go back with him when he returns to Asgard.

 

The agents around him shift as he tightens his grip on his hammer. They'd tried to make him leave it behind, which was laughable. Fat chance there. They'd have to pry them from his cold, dead hands, and the Midgardians were capable of a lot, but not this. 

 

From across the table, Thor meets the eyes of Captain Rogers, and they share a look of what he interprets as shared annoyance and understanding. Which is nice.

 

He likes this team—the  _ Avengers _ , Director Fury calls them—well enough. At least none of them have made bad first impressions. They have weird armour though. Personally, Thor finds it a little lacking. No capes.

 

“Okay so,” interrupts Agent Romanoff, chin tucked into her hand, “I get that, but we need to focus on our priorities, which at the moment all seem to be different.”

 

Unphased, Stark shrugs. “All right, Rushman, so here's the deal, we scrape every bit of science off of that staff, I tinker around a bit with my toys, you all get out of my way so I can do my thing. Problem solved, home in time for dinner. Or maybe drinks, or whatever.”

 

“So how long will that be?” she asks, voice hard.

 

Her face is blank and flat, and Loki’s always told him that people like that are the ones about to explode. Unpredictable. A ticking bomb. 

 

“Yes,” agrees Thor quickly, “We must get my friend Erik back, I'm sure he will prove most useful in your endeavour too, Stark. He is an expert in the Tesseract.”

 

Thor hears Tony mutter something about not needing any help, but minutely, Agent Romanoff relaxes. The others, Captain Rogers and Doctor Banner second his agreement, too. There are lives at stake here, and that's what their mission is. 

 

It's like back in Asgard and the  _ missions _ he'd prepare for then, but it's also very different. Somehow, his perspective has changed.

 

Before, they’d only concerned themselves with military tactics of where to position their troops in order to secure a victory, slaughter those of the other side, annihilate their enemies. He hadn't needed to worry about the risk of civilian lives—they had never fought their battles on Asgard, only on those other realms where the people somehow did not feel so important. 

 

He thinks about Asgard and their King and all their mighty warriors, unbeaten in arms, and of their AllSeeing gatekeeper. He imagines them sitting all high and mighty in their golden courts with their harps playing in the background. Probably drinking mead and telling battle tales. And he grits his teeth.

 

He's on one of those  _ other realms _ now, and the people here do not seem so insignificant. Rather, every single one, upon looking back, even if he did not realise it at the time, seems really very important.

 

Last night, Midgard was attacked by a force from beyond the Nine Realms, wishing to invade. Their attacker is sitting in a container in this very vessel now, pleased and halfway successful. An ancient Asgardian artifact of tremendous power has been stolen, to be used for nefarious purposes. Over sixty Midgardians are dead and several of them have become reduced puppets to this sceptre of unknown power and origin. One of those Midgardians is Thor’s friend.

 

And there's an army coming, apparently.

 

Isn't Asgard supposed to be the great protector of the Nine Realms? Because right now, it seems rather complacent.

 

* * *

 

  
  


“I can't read your mind, you know?” says Loki, suddenly.

 

Thor snorts.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, so I'm pretty sure that once you mentioned a brother?” says Lady Darcy, looking impish on the screen. Jane has just excused herself to go to the restroom, leaving only them to talk.

 

“Hm, yes,” he replies hesitantly, regretting, as per usual, that he ever mentioned it. Him. It. (Thor stops himself because it's a never ending circle at this rate.) “How fares that stray feline you found last fortnight?” He asks, trying unsubtly to change the subject.

 

“Oh, the kitten? Yeah, still around. They're good, her name’s the Great Dane, if you were wondering. Anyway, don't change the subject—tell me about your brother.”

 

He shrugs, “There's not much to tell. Besides, that is a rather strange name to give a cat. Is that not the same name as a Midgardian dog breed?”

 

Lady Darcy bats her hand dismissively. “Dane is mine and Jane's ‘ship name and Dane is our love-child, also it's the irony of it. Just deal with it.  _ Dane _ likes it.” 

 

In the background, Thor can hear the sound of the toilet flushing and the running tap water, and silently urges Jane to hurry up.

 

“Why are we talking about sea vessels?” He asks, fixing a befuddled expression onto his face, even though really, Thor’s been on Midgard for nine months, he's well aware what a  _ ship _ means in this context. 

 

Still, it's amusing to watch Lady Darcy’s bewildered and slightly enraged expressions she makes as she explains it to him, getting increasingly frustrated.

 

“But why is it a  _ ship _ and not a plane?”

 

She's just started on  _ NOTPs _ when Jane settles back next to Lady Darcy in her seat, waving at Thor through the camera. Thor waves back, grateful for her return. He can't really explain it; there’s just something about Jane that makes him feel at ease. It's very easy to trust her, and she's very kind and nice and just lovely, so really there's no reason not to.

 

Lady Darcy looks across at Jane, and then in the direction if the camera, and gags dramatically. “Okay, lovebirds. Forget I'm here, will you.”

 

“Sorry,” mumbles Jane, ducking her head, and through the screen, he can see a flush of rosy pink colour her cheeks. “What were you guys talking about?”

 

“Thor doesn't know what a ship is,” scoffs Lady Darcy, and then she pauses, frowning a little. “Actually, Thor was about to tell me about his brother.  _ Weren't you, Thor?” _

 

Thor gulps.

 

“Oh yeah!” says Jane, sitting up straighter, her eyes brightening, “Tell us about him. Apparently, he's an intellectual.”

 

See, Thor's long gotten used to Loki by now. His existence and lack thereof is just something he accepts as part of his life now. Like, it's been years. Literally centuries. And he’s even more used to lying about Loki. Yet, for some reason, he's found it fitting to confide in these mortals. He hadn't even known Jane for a week, when he first told her about his imaginary brother! It's no wonder he wasn't fit to be regent when he was making mistakes like that! 

 

_ Norns _ help him.

 

“Well,” he begins, throat dry. Perhaps this isn't  _ such  _ a terrible idea. There's no harm in it, really. It's not as though they can ever disprove his existence, if they believe the rest of his family are in Asgard. So it's fine. This is fine. “His name is Loki, he's younger than me.”

 

“Okay, but what does he  _ look _ like?” interrupts Lady Darcy, ignoring the way Jane elbows her lightly and gives her a reprimanding stare. “What? I'm allowed to ask.”

 

“It's all right. He doesn't really look like me. Or the rest of my family, actually. He has long black hair, green eyes and pale skin, he's a little skinnier than me. Would it, er, help if I drew a picture?” 

 

“If you want,” Lady Darcy replies, deflating for a moment but looking no less interested.

 

So Thor pulls up a pad of blank paper from the stack next to his computer monitor, and pen and begins to draw.

 

“I didn't know you could draw, Thor.” Jane watches him curiously.

 

“Ah well, not many people do,” he admits, doing first a rough sketch of the face shape. He's made the chin too pointy. Ugh. “I started because of Loki, actually. He always spent too long in the library reading, and I had to stay with him because, well... anyway, it got very boring. So after a while, I just started drawing. At first, Loki suggested I sketch the pictures in his texts, help him make notes.” He starts on the swoop of Loki’s nose now, straight but with a slight curve near the end. “but I preferred drawing the people. Things going on in real life.” 

 

“There's nothing wrong with that,” says Jane encouragingly.

 

Thor feels his face fall a little, “Yes, but, I've never told anyone about drawing, you know. It's not a very Prince-like thing to do, is it. And I always made fun of Loki because if his love of learning. I suppose I thought if I wasn't interested in it, then I wasn't interesting at all.”

 

Jane nods sympathetically. “Hey, most kids think that way, probably. He probably felt the same way back, you know. I mean, it doesn't make it right, picking on someone for their interests, but you were a kid.”

 

“Not really,” he sighs. The crinkle of the left eyelid is wrong, but he hasn't started it in pencil but pen—as always, he'd not been thinking ahead. It's too late now, so he moves onto the brows, taking his time for each hair. “If anything, growing up made it worse. And,” he squints at the paper a little, trying to see it from a different angle, “it was… it's not fair. I'm all he's got, really. He didn't really… have anyone else.”

 

The truth in it is almost ironic, but as it is, it just strikes him as sad.

 

It's strange, talking about Loki as though he's a real person. Logically, he knows Loki is just another part of his consciousness, but it's never really felt that way. He's always felt… separate, even when Thor had known none of it was true. The way Loki’s responses seem uniquely his, not Thor’s, and how they can genuinely disagree with each other, or how sometimes Loki will sneak up on Thor and actually frighten him to Hel and back.  He just seems so... tangible.

 

So yeah, it feels nice to finally talk about Loki, even if it's not the full truth. It feels good to let it out.

 

“I'm sure he had others he could talk to.”

 

With a light hand, he starts to gently shadow the contours of the cheekbones, using his fingertips to smudge them out a little.

 

She's trying to be comforting, he knows, but it only makes him feel a little silly. Well, it is, he supposes. After all, what is he even doing?

 

“Maybe,” he replies instead. He starts on Loki’s hair, varying between long brushing strokes and much shorter ones, trying to get the texture of the waves at the top and then the falling ringlets at the bottom just right. It's a quick sketch, very light. But he's drawn the very same face thousands of times before, and this time he does not have to throw it into the hearth to burn. “Nobody else really saw him.”

 

“What do you mean ‘ _ Nobody else really saw him _ ’?” Asks Lady Darcy, speaking up suddenly for the first time in a while, he eyes narrowed.

 

Thor blanches, and his own skids too far right and it's not a tragic mistake but it's still a mistake. “He, uh… he was just unviable to them, you know? Just a silhouette. In the metaphorical sense. Purely figuratively speaking.”

 

Oh dear, he can feel his fingers getting clammy.

 

“Hmm… okay.” She relaxes back into the couch and Thor relaxes his grip on his pen. “Nah, I was just messing with you. Y'all sounded so serious. Are you almost done with the drawing?”

 

“Almost,” he replies, a cool tide of relief washing over him. He adds a few baby hairs to frame Loki’s face, a little more shading to the nose and lips and Loki's ridiculously long eyelashes, just a hint of the shallows of his collarbone. 

 

“Okay,” he says slowly, leaning back on his desk chair and holding the paper away from his face so he can assess it from afar. It's good, he thinks, not his best but good enough. “I think it's done.”

 

“Well, show us then!”

 

Thor's eyes sweep over it dubiously. He's just showing them a drawing after all, so why does it feel as though he is walking along the edge of a precipice unsure of what lies below or how deep it goes? His hands shake. 

 

With a jolt he realises, this is the first time he's ever shown Loki to someone. The first time anyone has even seen Loki, his little brother who doesn't exist.

 

He stares down at the drawing again.

 

Someone will actually have some idea of what Loki looks like, the way his eyes smile and crease at the edges, the mischievous glint in his eyes that somehow always look a little sad. It's only a drawing, a mere ghost of the real thing (not a  _ real _ thing, though), but it's something… physical.

 

“Come on, Thor,” whines Lady Darcy impatiently. 

 

“I, ah— okay.” 

 

He holds it up to the camera on the monitor. He's nervous. Righteously so, he assures himself. It's like he is baring to them a piece of his soul which he has never shown anyone else, not even spoken of. 

 

Through the connection he hears Lady Darcy whistle and Jane gasp. They sound impressed, and something inside Thor warms. 

 

“Whoa,” says Jane, charmed. “That's really amazing Thor.” 

 

“Yeah. Like, damn  _ boy _ ! You got some  _ skills _ .” 

 

It's perhaps the first time, someone has complimented Thor on something other than just being big and strong and good with his fighting. Something other than being his father’s son. 

 

“Thanks.” He chuckles, his cheeks filling with warmth. “I've never shown anyone else my drawings before.”

 

“Really?” Jane asks, stunned. “Not that you have to if you don't want to, but you're really good, Thor. Like that's amazing and it only took like, what, twenty minutes?”

 

“Yeah, if this SHIELD thing doesn't work out, then you should go to art school or something. People pay for commissions like that,” agrees Lady Darcy, nodding to herself.

 

Thor rubs the back of his neck, feeling bashful. He feels light and happy, a different happy from the type he’s used to of the aftermath of a victory, and he’s not quite sure what to do with it, but he feels content to bask. “Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

It kind of feels like he's floating. 

 

They both agree that, no, Loki does not look at all like Thor, and Darcy licks her lips dramatically and says she still  _ thirsts,  _ to which he suggests getting herself some water, even if there is a lack of it in the desert. Jane asks Thor a little more about Loki’s hobbies, and her interest piques when he mentions seidr like it always does, before souring. 

 

“Magic is just science we don't understand yet.” She scowls, looking petulant. And, to be honest, Thor doesn't know nearly enough about science to discredit that, so he just smiles and says nothing.

 

By the time Thor checks the timer on the Skype call, he finds they've been talking for over two and a half hours, and it feels simultaneously like it's been forever and they've only just begun.

 

“It's getting late,” he says reluctantly, yawning and stretching. He rolls his shoulders a few times so the stiffened joints crack, massaging the knots in his neck a little.

 

“Yeah,” replies Jane. Neither of them want to end the call.

 

Seemingly forgotten, Darcy rolls her eyes and huffs, standing up. “Okay. Well, I'm going to bed. You two be good. No video sex please. The walls are thin, and we live in a caravan. Jane, remember to turn the lights off when you're done,” and stalks away. 

 

Jane blushes, embarrassed, and Thor can feel himself doing the same. Neither of them say anything for a while, content to just let the silence linger.

 

It's still good though. The general mood of it. It's a nice atmosphere. Still and soft and calm.

 

“So um—” starts Jane at the same time as Thor says, “You should—"

 

“You first,” they both blurt, again at the same time.

 

They both cough awkwardly a little and Jane lets out a little laugh, a tinkering giggle, which makes Thor smile. 

 

“Go on,” he prompts.

 

She shakes her head, “No, it's nothing. Just, how are things?”

 

“Good. They're good. What about for you?”

 

“Yeah, things are fine over here, too. Slow work and all.”

 

“Mmm.” Thor swallows. His eyes feel tired from staring at the bright screen for so long, but he doesn't want to look away. “You should come visit, even just for a little while. Both of you.” He adds on quickly. 

 

“Yeah, that'd be nice.”

 

When Thor finally settles into bed for the night he feels tired, and happy and… content. Things feel all right.

 

It's different here on Earth—of course it is, but that’s okay. 

 

And it might not be home but it feels like maybe he can make something here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final installment will be hopefully up on Sunday! Until then, leave a review? Thank you for reading <3


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Ragnarok Spoilers at the end!!

>  

_There are no men like me_.

 

* * *

 

It's raining outside, so for once, Thor doesn't mind staying inside, even if he wants to go out and splash in the puddles.

"Do you want to play Hide and Seek?" he asks his brother earnestly. Loki looks up at him from his picture book and smiles.

"Okay," he agrees happily.

"I'll seek," declares Thor, "You can hide."

Loki nods. "Thirty seconds, at least okay?"

So Thor turns his back and faces the wall, covers his eyes with his hands and begins to count.  _1… 2… 3… 4…_ He can hear Loki shuffling his things away, and hears his scrambling footsteps against the floor.  _9… 10… 11…_ He listens as the door of his bedchamber swings on its hinges out to his common room and slams shut behind.

_16… 17… 18…_

It's very tempting to just go seeking now, and say he just counted very fast, but Loki is very good at telling when people are lying, and Thor is not very good at lying. Besides, he  _did_  promise.

_26… 27… 28... 29... 30…_

And if Thor speeds up in counting the rest of the numbers, well, nobody has to know. It's not like he's actually cheating.

He opens his eyes and scans the room. Usually, he'd say it's obvious Loki has left the room, but Thor wouldn't put it past him to have used the sound of the door as a ruse. Still, nothing else except Loki's books on the floor seem to have shifted. He checks under the bed, inside his closet, in each of his drawers, behind each object in his room, before he concludes that, no, Loki is not in his room. Then, he ventures out.

The room outside his room is his common room, where he brings his other friends like Fandral and Hogun. It's relatively big, with lots of large furniture like his two plush couches, Loki's favourite armchair for reading in, lots of bookshelves and cupboards and desks and bigger toys like his wooden horses, his push-trolley and his  _hide-out-tent-fort_  which Father helped him build three winters ago. So, it's really an ideal room for hiding places. Lots of nooks and crannies.

Which means, he frowns, contemplating, that Loki could be absolutely anywhere.

He decides to make his way through from the far end back, starting with the cupboards.

He checks each and every one, some which have not been opened in quite some time and let out clouds of smoke, some which he knows quite well and are filled to overflowing with his toys and books.

He checks behind each shelf… between that impossibly tight gap behind the backs of the shelves and the walls. There are cobwebs and Thor screws his face in disgust when he thinks he spots something scuttling along the wall. The cleaning servants have been terribly neglectful.

He checks under each couch and chair and desk and table and even sorts through all his toys.

He checks behind the floor length curtains, made of thick red and gold silk, and even opens the windows to peer down.

He checks in his bathroom, in the bath and shower.

He checks inside the basket with his laundry, wrinkling his nose at his own dirty garments.

He searches for a long time. A very, very, very long time.

Perhaps he should check his toys again?

By the time Thor gives up, a maid has come to usher him down for dinner.

He can't find Loki.

"In a minute," he says, and goes to check his room again, though he knows it is empty.

He checks the wardrobe again, and under the bed, pulls back the covers.

"Loki!" he calls out," Come on, Brother. It's time for dinner, and it's no fun when I can't find you."

Loki does not come out.

Well, he supposes, it is, technically, the point of the game.

 

* * *

 

It's just them alone now. Jane and him. He's taking her out for lunch. Just them.

Or well, it's  _supposed_ to be just them.

Jane's at the toilet, so Thor flips out his phone and presses it to his ear so they can talk without him getting weird looks from passers-by.

"Why do you always appear at the most inopportune moments, yet are never there when I need you?" huffs Thor. He's not really angry, just a little annoyed at the timing of it. The usual, then.

"If you want, I can go," offers Loki, looking around them at the busy street and then back at Thor. He's being studied again. Loki is always doing that—watching his expression like he's about to write a report on Thor.

Thor frowns, confused. "Do you even know how to?" Because Thor himself, after all these years, has still no clue as to how Loki works, so it's strange that Loki himself might have a clue. Or maybe that's just his mind building more to the character, making his brother seem more three-dimensional, as some on this realm would put it.

Loki hesitates for a moment before nodding slowly. "I… Yes. Yes, I do know how."

Let's see if this works.

"Well," he says, jerking his head in the direction of literally anywhere else meaningfully. "What are you waiting for? Leave."

"We need to wait for Jane to come back first," explains Loki, "Which direction is the cafe?"

"We're turning right after this street and then we're there."

He nods in understanding, his eyes drinking in the the colourful shop displays in the window, and then back at Thor. "Good luck, then. May you charm her with your good looks and—" he eyes him up and down mockingly. "—Impressive wit."

Thor is about give some sort of indignant reply when Jane returns, smiling cautiously.

"Who was that?"

"Nobody," he answers, pocketing his phone, "Just SHIELD."

He looks a little reluctant doing so, but surprisingly obediently, when they start walking, Loki turns on his heel and goes the other way, and when Thor glances behind them briefly to check, after they've turned the corner, he's gone.

 

* * *

 

"Let's play Hide and Seek," says Thor, poking his brother boredly.

"Stop it." Loki sighs, turning the page of his book.

It's raining again, and Loki does not want to go outside to jump in the puddles again. Instead he just wants to stay inside  _reading_.

"Come on, Brother!" He whines.

Loki ignores him resolutely, his eyes continue to stare at the words on the page unwaveringly, knuckles clenched.

"I can hide and you may seek this time, if you prefer," he pleads, tugging at the sleeve.

"No," replies Loki resolutely, turning his back to face Thor.

"Why not?"

"Because I'd  _prefer_  not to." Loki pinches the bridge of his nose like Thor has seen adults do when he is testing their patience. It looks rather silly on his baby brother. He tries not to laugh. Putting his book down suddenly, Loki sighs softly. "Fine. Shall we go outside, then? Would that please you, Brother?"

It, in fact, does please Thor. Very much so.

Jumping in puddles is a lot of fun. Thor gets soaked to the skin and splashes water everywhere. Loki skips alongside him and giggles happily when Thor tries to splash him, though it seems like he never gets wet.

Yes, this is a lot more fun than Hide and Seek.

Later, when they are tucked into bed, Thor shifts his head on the pillow to face Loki, since he knows he will be awake—Loki doesn't like sleeping. He asks him why he didn't want to play Hide and Seek, even though it  _was_  more fun to jump around in the puddles.

His brother just shrugs and squeezes his eyes shut. He shrugs. "I just… I don't like it," he replies quietly, subdued and tense. "Can we go to sleep now?"

 

* * *

_You must be truly desperate to come to me for help._

 

* * *

 

"A wise king never seeks out war, but he must always be ready for it."

Odin speaks this quietly, firmly, tiredly. Like he has already said this many a time before. Thor knows he has not.

At their side, in their shadow, he sees Loki watching and listening attentively, drinking them in like water, as he does with all Father's words, so Thor does the same.

"And you must never forget that, my son," says Odin, and Thor nods.

He won't.

* * *

They're about three hours into the battle, swarms of Chitauri soldiers still crashing through in waves, when the heavens open up again. Not as a gaping yawning chasm in the sky, parting the clouds to the black abyss in it's terrifying infinity, but instead as the familiar roar of the bright rainbow of splintering colours, concentrated and powerful, which Thor has not seen in over a year.

Asgard has assembled it's forces finally, he sees. Though they might be too late.

Around them, concrete pillars of the buildings around them have cracked and crumbled, crushing everything beneath. And New York is such a very densely populated area, that a single building might crush several dozen. And there are many buildings.

The smell of thick smoke from fires clogs his nostrils and makes his throat dry, and when he inhales, the dust from collapsed buildings fills his throat and lungs.

Still, he swings his hammer.

There are the sounds of blasters and cannons and guns firing, and now the war cry of his people. But these are not the sounds of the war, but the sounds of the battle.

Down below are the shouts of people in those big red vehicles and fluorescent yellow jackets, climbing into buildings and carrying out children and those unable to walk, though they are at just as much risk as them.

Down below are the screams of the people. Wailing and crying, for help and to mourn.

Down below is the silence.

The silence of the dead and those whose pleas and screams are muffled.

It is an elegy.

Thor feels sick and remembers he used to like war.

The fires around the city are spreading rapidly now, and Thor can smell the smoke and the scent of charred, burning remains, and his Aesir blood recognises the funeral it symbolises, like it is one mass pyre.

Asgard has not assembled their whole cavalry, but he sees their best amongst them. He sees General Tyr, with his single hand holding a broadsword; spots the mighty force of the Eijanhar, never once bested, in their impeccable formations; catches his friends, Sif with her aura blazing with fire and furious slashes, Volstagg with his strong shield arm battering his opponents, Fandral with his confident feet and elaborate movements, and Hogun with his sharp accuracy and speed, cutting through everything with practiced ease.

Thor feels the rush in his blood to join them or to call them, but the giant mechanical serpent in the sky is heading straight for a building of high-rise apartments and Thor is the closest.

"What the fuck?" he hears Stark yelp over the comms, "We have more company?!"

"Leave them!" Thor yells back, pointing his aim towards the serpent, "Asgard has finally joined the fight, and you must not appear as the enemy."

"But they aren't, right? They aren't enemies?" Captain Rogers asks, unsure. For the first time Thor has known him, he sounds out of breath, panting heavily.

"No," he assures them, and himself too. "They are allies."

Lighting sparks and crackles over his skin, and Thor tells himself again he is the God of Thunder. He repeats it in his head like a mantra and plunges towards it, crashing in.

 _Now up, Thor!_ A voice yells in his ear,  _There are people on the streets but none in the sky. Up!_

He does not have time to hesitate, jerking his hammer sharply up.

It is heavy, the heaviest thing Thor has ever had to lift, except maybe Mjolnir. And from his hands, Mjolnir rains a tempest, and explosion of electrical energy in rapid jagged blue lines, ringing and surging throughout the whole organism of this beast of destruction.

_Yes! You are the God of Thunder, and you will strike down with your justice, smite your foes._

The air around him gets thicker, more charged, as they ascend. And something in Thor tugs loose, like the unstoppering of a spirit.

The serpent shatters. Shards and gravel streak the sky landing anywhere, everywhere, out of sight.

For a brief moment, Thor allows himself to fall, knowing that if he lands he may walk away. But Mjolnir stops him mid-way down, and he remembers that below him, they will not.

The battle below still rages. The corner of the building he just saved has crumpled inwards from likely something else. There is another mechanical serpent and though Stark and Dr. Banner seem to be doing a good job at taking it down. Looking into the portal above them, there may be more.

"Fuck," Stark curses again, "Fuck fuck fuckity  _fuck_."

"What is it?" growls Agent Barton, the most human of them all—one of the agents Thor remembers from both the facility and New Mexico, and Agent Romanoff's friend, the one she  _owes_.

"Just got some intel from Fury. Said the Council's sending a fucking  _nuke_."

Thor almost laughs. All this death and destruction, and it is not enough?

"Shit." Agent Romanoff, stunned. "Anyone know how to stop a missile?"

Thor lands on the balls of his feet, looking around at the chaos of it, searching for...something _._

There must be  _something_  they can do.

They fight side by side, the Avengers. Hulk beating them off tens at a time, sometimes with his fists, some times with only a loud roar, some semblance of amusement on his face like a lion playing with its food. Captain America looks solemn and angry, so damned  _angry_  and it sends a shiver down Thor's spine, the way he hurls his shield at his enemies. He spies Hawkeye jumping from building to building, nimble, shooting a hail of accurately pinpointed explosive arrows, piercing Chitauri whilst wrestling them with his bow, merciless and unforgiving. Iron-man is hardly visible behind his wall of lights, blasts from his repulsors beaming out and cutting through them like lasers. The Black Widow looks cold, and strung tighter and tighter, stabbing and striking ruthlessly, like the army they face are just her partners in an unwilling dance of death.

Thor controls the storm. It does not control him. It used to, he thinks, but not anymore. For Thor is the God of Thunder; and Thunder is not the God of Thor. He channels it like a fuel, sparking out from his core and releasing in a static rage. It is alive within Thor, one with him, like the water in his body and the blood in his veins.

They fight side by side, the Avengers.

They fight side by side, back to back, all different and violent, and none of this is even a little bit graceful, not even the Widow, but they coexist somehow and it works.

All of them, combined with the other agents, the lended might of Asgard, push the enemy back.

"Guys," says Stark, voice rough from exertion, "ETA for the nuke is approximately eight minutes."

It's hard to swallow this because this is not something Thor can strike down with his hammer, or even his thunder. And because he is already exhausted and more waves of them will come and it all seems never-ending.

Thor used to  _like_  war. He used to revel in the battle and bloodlust. He used to seek it, court it like one would a lover.

A shadow falls beside him, and Thor allows himself to look away from the action and glance momentarily.

"Send it up to the portal," says Loki quietly, standing still yet frantic as everything fights around and through him. "The Chitauri have a hive mind, I think. If you send it up there, the battle should be over."

"What do you mean?" Thor yells back, too tired for subtlety.

Agent Romanoff turns to him sharply, "Who are you talking to?"

"Just trust me," insists Loki, "Do it."

And Thor does trust him, ironically perhaps more than he might trust himself.

"We need to send the missile into the portal," he repeats dutifully, keeping one eye on his brother and the other on the battle. "The Chitauri have a hive mind, and—" He pummels another soldier into the pavement.

"— _And their mothership is beyond in the portal. If they are destroyed, the rest of the army will collapse,"_  Loki says, slowly for Thor to repeat the words.

"It's incoming in less than two minutes," warns Stark. "It's either me, you or both of us, Point Break."

It should be Thor. Thor is the one who will most likely survive it. He is the God amongst these mortals, and they are so mortal.

But so is he.

And if being mortal these past months has taught him anything, it is that he fears death.

Of being one moment and then just stopping the next.

It's inevitable, of course, but even when they know it intellectually, everybody thinks they can live forever if they try hard enough.

"Let him do it," says Loki, eyes cold and desperate. "You don't know what's up there. You don't know what you'll find."

"No," Thor hears his voice saying, "He's too weak to survive it."

"He has armour! He…  _what about you?!"_

"Thor!" he hears one of the others say, he can't tell which one. "Who are you talking to? It's coming in fast. We've got to make a decision."

Thor takes one last look at his brother, eyes wide with panic— an expression he has worn more times this one year than his entire life. Loki is scared.

He grits his teeth and twirls his hammer, listening for the incoming missile and—

"Right, time's up. See you on the other side, I gu…"

Stark's comms rattle out just as the red and gold streak disappears into the blackness, swallowed whole.

 

* * *

 

The night has become muted now. The feasting has stilled Anyone who talks whispers in hushed tones, sipping their drinks, relaxed but attentive. It's the part of the night where Thor thinks he'd rather be in bed.

Everyone is listening to the voice in the middle of the room. An old bard weaving a tale of old or of now or of tomorrows yet to come—nobody quite knows.

It's a sad tale, silver and mellow and strikes something into Thor's heart that feels like a warning.

The tapestry is woven and hung up and there are a few threads loose and, in the end, the hero dies and fails at their quest. They do not get to save anyone. Even the monster dies.

And perhaps that part is the saddest of all. Nobody wins.

"What do you think death feels like?" Thor asks his little brother, resting his head against the oak of the table.

His brother copies him the way younger siblings often do, resting his own head beside his. He scrunches up his face.

"I don't know why you would ask  _me_ that," he replies, "Even if I did know, it's not like I could describe it to you anyways. I've got nothing to compare it to."

"What do you mean?"

Loki's face freezes for a second before his tiny shoulders shrug.

"How would you describe the wind to someone who cannot feel it? Or the rain? Or even the heat of a roaring fire? The taste of the peach juice you are drinking? How can you describe those things to people who have never experienced them, and who cannot and will not?"

That's a lot of questions, and Thor is not sure how to answer them or why they are relevant and why it seems like Loki has more.

But then, his little brother has always been the inquisitive sort.

"I don't know," he admits, "But then  _everyone_  knows what those things feel like, so it doesn't matter."

Loki just shrugs again, not meeting his eyes. "I suppose."

Thor laughs at that, elbowing him teasingly. "You know, I think that this might be the first time I've proven to be right, against you," he says.

His brother merely rolls his eyes at that. "Yes, well," he retorts snarkily, cheeky little thing that he is. "You know what they say. A broken clock is at least right twice a day."

Silly Loki.

 

 

* * *

 

Oh Norns. Oh  _Hel_.

Literally.

Steve rips the golden mask off of Tony's face, the shell supposed to protect him so easily torn away.

His face is still.

Eyes sealed shut, mouth closed.

Thor cannot watch, but he cannot look away either, rapt.

The entire face is so relaxed that the only reason he could not possibly be asleep is that Thor knows sleep is not so peaceful.

The body is limp and too heavy and too light all at the same time. The skin is too cold. What was once a power source in his chest, is dull, unlit, as lifeless as what occupies it.

There was a person in there, before. And now just a husk.

Around them, the dust clears. The buildings still creak, groaning under the weight of themselves.

It's over. It's all over.

And there are still fires to put out, civilians to rescue, homes and schools and hospitals that have been demolished by some alien executioner.

"Kneel," the Other had said, "I am your righteous leader—your King, your ruler. I am burdened with glorious purpose."

_("I cannot believe Father would do this to me. His son. I could die here! And I was well within my rights as a warrior of Asgard, no less a prince, to defend my honour!")_

All this death and destruction and all for nothing.

There is much to be restored, rebuilding that will take time, and losses that can never be recovered.

Loss of brothers, sisters, siblings, friends. And mothers, fathers, parents and children and people that are relied upon.

Like a well-dressed, mild mannered agent who, of all things, had conviction.

Fallen comrades like the man at his feet.

"C'mon, Stark," he hears Natasha muttering under her breath.

Steve is on his knees beside him.

Clint drops his bow, arms limp by his side.

"C'mon," he hears Loki muttering, stepping out to stand by his side. " _C'mon."_

Hulk lets out a roar, jolting, brittle and loud and angry. He's in  _pain_. He smashes his fists on the ground and falls to lie back onto his bed of rubble.

Why does everybody need to die?

A gasp.

A cough, a splutter. Tony Stark's chest heaves through the plates of his armour, the heart of his machine glows, bright and vital, and all their breaths lift.

He can hear his beating heart, weak and faint, barely there. But it is there.

Tony Stark lives.

(Though others do not.)

 

* * *

 

Asgard suffer no great losses during the battle. There are some wounded, yes, but they will certainly heal. They return first, spirited and satisfied with battle, for they are a warrior nation with no war.

"I should go with them," Thor says, as they are preparing to leave, shaking hands with those they may consider brothers in arms, their Avengers, the SHIELD agents, the New York Fire Department (who nod and wave but do not stop to chat. They still have jobs to do.)

"Surely they can deal without you for a little while longer?" grins Tony, "A year and a bit is not that much."

Thor shakes his head, no. Truly, it is not. And he will miss this realm.

"I can always visit," he offers.

Tony ignores him. "C'mon," he says, "There's this really good shawarma place and I want to see if its still alive. Maybe they'll give us free food, since we're heroes and all now."

Natasha rolls her eyes, "You're literally a billionaire."

But it's funny he should say that. Before arriving here on Midgard, Thor would have said without question that he was a hero. That he was  _The Hero_. Look at the big strong muscles he has, his golden locks, his royal blood! Look at the way he wields Mjolnir, who only chooses the  _worthy_ , and commands the heaven's rage above. It had all seemed so clear then that Thor was the hero, all without doing anything heroic.

But now… perhaps he can accept the title, Hero of New York, or even Midgard, but he knows now that it is not who he is but what he does.

So, Hero of New York. Huh.

"Perhaps I might stay a little longer," Thor indulges, a smile fighting it's way to the surface. Plus, he has to say goodbye to Jane. And Lady Darcy. And check on Erik. And perhaps check in on SHIELD, maybe.

"That's the spirit!" Tony claps him on the back, leading him away over to the rest of the team.

Before they go, Thor catches up with Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. They beam at him with matching grins and bright faces, ask how he is doing, and he asks about them, and the welfare of his family and his people.

Lady Sif grimaces a little and Fandral winces. "Tension between Jotunheim and Asgard is still strung high. War may still be on the table, but no side has taken any action yet. It's only been a year after all," she says.

"We shall tell you more once you have returned," Fandral adds.

"All right, my good friends. I shall see you then."

The Other is chained, gagged and dragged away by the Eijanhar, but his eyes smile and glint at the edges, and Thor can't help but think about the remains of this city and what remains in the ashes (and what does not). He shudders and remembers his own home.

"The Other will be judged by the AllFather," explains Lord Tyr to the Director Fury, as though he is explaining it to a child. "As protector and King of the Nine Realms, that burden falls to him. Besides," he continues, smiling amicably, "Midgard does not have the means to hold him, I should think."

And though the Director grits his teeth, he cannot argue with that logic. Not when these people seem to have mastered space travel, the strength of their armies, and, well, just  _look_  at Thor.

"We'll be taking the Tesseract, too, of course," adds the general, "It was always ours, anyhow."

Perhaps it is unfair, but he knows Fury will not start conflict with Asgard. He has to keep peace.

"Perhaps we can come to some sort of compromise," he suggests, and Lord Tyr allows him an indulgent smile which really just makes it worse.

It makes Thor sigh in relief that he is not the one responsible for those kinds of affairs. Not anymore. It comes as a sudden shock but also as an obvious conclusion to it all. Thor doesn't want to be king. He didn't understand what it meant before and he still does not now, though he might be closer to it.

This is where Father sent Thor to learn his great lesson, and what a great many lessons he has learnt!

As it turns out, the shawarma place is open. Well, not open, but it is unharmed, and the owners are still there, hiding under their counters. The bell above the entrance rings when the door opens, and the rich, sweet smell of spices fills Thor and warms him a little.

"How is it?" asks Loki, slipping in beside him, eying the contents on the table greedily.

Thor has never had shawarma before but it does not disappoint. They are delightful pockets of delicious meat and filling wrapped in blankets of some sort of flat bread. Really, though they may be a little nonsensical in some places, Midgardians have mastered the craft of food.

"Delicious," he replies. The others take no note of it, or else assume he is talking to himself—which he is.

He's always wondered why Loki never knows things like what Thor is thinking or how food tastes, even though Thor knows they are the same.

It's probably just the way Thor has imagined him—makes him more life-like, character development.  _All that jazz._

Yeah.

 

* * *

 

 _Your birthright_ —

 

* * *

 

"This is a bad idea, Thor," says Loki, twisting his hands nervously. "Father has forbidden us."

"Father has grown old," Thor replies lowly, practically growling. "It is my  _right._ And in any case, we must show the Jotuns their place: below us.

And Loki is speaking about rules and treaties and ancient wars from history. His friends, though they are unaware of it, are agreeing with his brother and Thor is not listening. Norns, he thinks frustratedly. If Asgard is a nation of warriors, they should not fear war. They should seek it. Thor's hands curl around Mjolnir's handle, channelling his desire to smite something.

This was his  _birthright_  and now… now he has nothing. It all means nothing.

It is as though some berserker rage has possessed him when he thrashes the banquet hall, blood flowing hot through his veins. The solid wood of the tables have splintered, and crystal chalices and plates lay in cutting shards on the ground.

His friends look at him in fear. And so does his brother.

 

* * *

 

Thor visits Erik in the SHIELD medical bay, propped up in bed, scanners running over him, a bandage around his head and over his ribs, a glazed look passing through his grey eyes. Grey eyes, not blue.

He coughs awkwardly, as to not startle the man, and approaches him.

"Hey," he says, turning his head to look at him. A thin smile stretching his lips in greeting.

"Hey," Thor replies and sits down in the chair next to the bed. It's one if those hospital visitor ones with the firm but lumpy padding and the plastic-y cover in a soft salmon pink. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," he says instantly, and then frowns, mostly at himself. "Actually, if I'm being completely honest, Thor…"

"Go on."

"Well," he chuckles a little, almost as though this is some kind of big cosmic joke and he cannot believe it has happened to him. Which makes sense, actually.

Thor has seen Erik cry before. At least a few times. Once about Jane, the incident in late September when she'd been mugged, and several times watching a few particularly sad Midgardian films.

But not once has he seen Erik cry for himself.

There's a first time for everything, apparently.

"Let's see. My head just got fucked over by an alien, my work opened a portal releasing an army of other aliens which destroyed half of New York, and now I'm here. Have I missed anything? Like, what about the fact that I can't trust my head anymore because my most trusted asset, my mind, was tossed around like a ragdoll? Or, how about how when I was under… under  _it_  I didn't even realise? It all felt so  _right_. So  _clear._ " He's breathing heavily now, rough and furious, but Thor is more grateful for the anger than what could be the alternative.

Anger means there is fight, and Erik is strong—strong enough to beat this.

(But he's so sad too, so overwhelmed and tired because how could something like this happen to  _him?!_ )

"I'm sorry," Thor says uselessly.

Erik shakes his head, and rubs at his eyes harshly with his forearms. "Don't be. I'm glad there are at least some benevolent aliens out there."

"They are as alien to us as they are to you."

He nods, smiling bitterly in disbelief, "Yeah, and isn't that a thought?"

"You will be all right" And it's less of a reassurance (because what right has Thor to make that claim?) and more of a command, because he  _must_ be okay, in the end.

For a minute or so, Erik does not reply, just allowing the silence to linger for a little while longer, the mood stagnant. Not comfortable but not uncomfortable.

He shifts on the chair, a little unsure of what to do with this moment.

"Yeah, maybe."

Thor sits there for the rest of the afternoon, arms folded, leant back on the chair, listening to Erik breathe. Every so often, a medic will come to check in or take another scan of Erik's brain. Erik just lays there without a complaint, not really seeming to care.

"Take care, Thor," says Erik at last, when it is finally time to leave. "We'll miss you. And don't forget about us."

Thor smiles sadly, happily, anguished and relieved. "And so will we."

 

* * *

 

"So you're returning to Asgard now, I guess," says Jane through the screen. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and Thor's fingers itch because he cannot do it himself.

He swallows, wets his lips, ducks his head a little. He does not meet her eyes. This is the right thing to do, of course.

"I—Yes. I must," he replies reluctantly.

 _Don't,_ he wants her to say,  _Don't go. Stay. I want you to stay._

"Yeah. I understand. You're a prince and all. I get that."

She probably doesn't. To be honest, Thor himself does not quite know what it means to be a prince, and he was born one.

Who knows though—she is a genius, after all.

"I can always return," he says, his eyes flickering to her face. "I can visit if you… if you'd like."

"Yeah. That'd be nice."

Except the last time anyone from Asgard visited was yesterday, and before that a year ago, and before that over a thousand.

And mortals have such short lifetimes, it's a wonder Thor is able to return at all.

"It''ll be good," Jane continues, chuckling nervously, "You can finally see your family again. I'm sure they miss you a lot. You can see your brother again."

"Hm. Yes. My brother," Thor echoes.

Loki is not present at the moment, but he can hear him chuckling at that statement in his head, at the irony if it. He'd probably say hi or something like that.

( _"Yes. His name is Loki. I think he'd like you."_

She smiles kindly but it also looks as though she does not particularly care.

 _"Thank you," she says, nonetheless._ )

Thor is pretty sure Loki likes Jane. He's said so, or close enough. Says she has a brilliant mind and a good heart.

Once, Loki had remarked, "You love the same."

It was a rather strange observation for himself to make, but it's not a bad one. It's nice, if a bit vain.

"You will come back, won't you?" She asks, somehow meeting his eyes through the screen.

"Yes," he says, intently, hopefully. "Yes, I will."

They smile at each other, hands hovering over the button to end the call.

And it's fine. Everything is okay. They're all right.

"I promise."

 

* * *

 

 

_Cause I want to be forever_

 

_Like smoke in the air_

_Float like a feather going nowhere_

 

_Lost in the silence_

_I don't need to be free_

 

_Kill me with kindness_

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Thor wakes up, neither Mama nor Papa are by his side.

The winter sun streams warm slivers of light through the window, through the slits in the curtains like yellow ribbons. The fire in the hearth burns brightly, spitting glowy red embers and grey soot into the air, dancing in and out, twirling. And the bed around him is cold and empty.

Where are they?

Thor tugs the covers around himself tighter, shivering and burrowing his head beneath the layers and squeezing his eyes shut.

The room is quiet apart from the crackling from the fire, logs of chopped wood popping and kindling in the flames, and he can hear the quiet huff of his own breath. Where are they? This isn't how it was supposed to be.

Under the sheets the air feels stuffy, sticky and second hand. It makes the strands of his hair curl and cling to his face and the back of his neck. He should probably get up soon. Doubtless, there will be much to do for today, people to welcome and greet, feasts to prepare for.

Perhaps he can just wait until they return.

And Papa did promise to tell him his battle stories, and maybe Mama will let him play with his new brother!

His new brother!

Thor grins giddily at the thought, envisioning already all the fun they will have. Sure, he's not stupid, he knows his brother will be just a babe, but still, even such a tiny little thing is better than none at all! All he has to do is wait till Mother and Father return. He has to exercise patience, as Mother always says.

Right, patience. Thor can do that. He can have patience.

Where are they?

Thor lasts about five minutes under the covers, air getting thicker and hotter and stickier, before he finally pokes his head out to breathe, freshness hitting him with a cool breeze. He just lies there, staring listlessly at the mosaics on the ceiling.

Waiting is just so...boring. Pointless. And where are they, anyway? They promised they'd be here when he woke up, and he's woken up now. And where's his brother?

A sudden thought occurs to him and he scrambles off the bed quickly, throwing back the covers and planting his feet on the ground. Perhaps, he thinks furiously, it is a test. Some sort of game, and in order for him to win it, he'll have to find them!

The room, despite the fire, is still a little chilly, enough for little goose-bumps to form on his skin. He shrugs on his robe, laid out beside the bed probably by some servant, and pulls on a thick pair of socks.

"Mama?" He calls out tentatively, tiptoeing across the floor. "Papa?"

There's no response, so he allows himself to venture out a little further towards the doorway of the room. He gives it a little push, mustering his strength enough for the heavy oak to open just a slit. Well, he  _is_  pretty strong—he's going to be a warrior after all. He pokes his head out through the gap, peering into the lounge room, where he waited for Papa to return last night. He frowns.

It looks just as they left it yesterday. No servant has been called to clean the room or fold up the blanket he was using or clear up the jug of juice left on the centre-table. Untouched.

"Mama? Papa?" he calls again, "Where are you?"

They aren't there, he can tell that much. And when he tries for the handle of the next door, the giant main ones which usually open with just a touch from the magic weaved into them, they don't budge. They hold strong and fast, solid, like they are not doors at all but decorative walls.

Thor isn't sure how long he waits there, pacing. Walking back and forth between each wall, occasionally pressing against the doors uselessly. Sometimes he sits by the door, other times he lies on his tummy on one of the couches, face down on a velvet cushion. He even kicks the door a few times, which doesn't do anything except make his feet start to ache, but it relieves a bit of the restlessness.

Where are they?

It must be hours, at least, and it feels like  _days_ , when the door finally clicks open. Well, he amends, not really. Thor rubs at his eyes blearily, looking up. It's not Mother or Father which enter the room, just a maid. She walks in, hurried and frantic, wispy strands of dirty blond hair falling out of what should be an impeccably braided bun, and she looks just as startled as he is at actually seeing another human being in the room.

"Where's Mama and Papa?"

She gives him a strained sort of smile, and starts to rummage around Father's old bookshelves, looking for something. "Busy. Shall I tell them you are seeking their presence?" Her fingers run along the spines of the books at her eye level before stopping.

"No, thanks," he answers, "I shall find them myself."

She frowns, turning to look at him before plucking a blue and silver, leather bound book off the shelf. "They are very busy right now, my Prince. That would not be advisable."

And because the servants are not allowed to tell Thor what to do, he knows that means no.

"Can I have some breakfast, then? I'm hungry."

The maid hurries away with the book and promises that she will certainly tell Mama and Papa that he is seeking them. They  _promised_. A few minutes later another servant comes knocking with a cart of food: slices of seasonal winter melon which glisten like gems, and frozen berries, tart and sweet on his tongue, warm honey folded into oatmeal. And Thor's so hungry, it must be the best meal he's ever tasted. If only he could share it with someone.

It's an hour after that, when Thor has eaten his fill and he's only arranging the leftover food on his plate into a some sort of face, that Mother comes bursting through the doors, instantly finding him in her arms and hugging him tight, clinging, stroking his hair and rocking them back and forth gently. Thor wants to yell, scream and whine and stomp his feet. Throw some sort of tantrum because  _where have they been?!_  And Father isn't even here yet!

But he doesn't, because his mama's arms are shaking around him and her lips are pursed into a thin line. He pulls her closer and buries his neck into her deeper.

It's a while before he finally registers what she says. "I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry…"

Why? Why is she sorry? Other than for leaving him and breaking their promise, of course.

"Where's Papa?" He asks her, when he feels her shaking has become less intense. "Why isn't he here? He promised to tell me stories."

_And you both promised to be here when I woke._

"He's…" She stills, her arms still wrapped around him but weak and limp. "He just needs a little time alone now, okay? He can read to you later."

"Why?"

Those aren't the stories he wants Father to tell though. Father promised him battle tales! Tales of victory and fearsome warriors. Tales from the battlefield in Jotunheim! But he does not say all this.

Mama rubs her cheek against his softly. "He's mourning."

He does not see Father still, for the rest of the evening and Mother sends for an announcement to be made that celebration feasts will be hosted in the banquet halls in a week's time, to allow Asgard's warriors to rest up, and reunite properly with family. It's not the normal process for such things, but he does not question it. Mother is quiet for the rest of the day, subdued, twisting her hands and gazing out at the window to Asgard's winter, light but still with a slight blanket of snow glittering the ground. Occasionally, she looks up, her eyes searching for his before smiling, though it does not quite meet her eyes.

"I love you, Thor," she says after their servants have delivered a dinner of parsnip soup and potatoes and rich, fatty goose, "I love you so much."

"I love you, too!" he says, offering her one of those nice big beams he knows she loves so much. And she seems to drink it in and savour it.

At night, when they go to sleep, just them, just like during the war, Mother holds onto Thor's hand. Holds tight.

Things are very much the same, the few days following. He sees Father at breakfast and then dinner, of course, but not really. He answers in single worded replies and dismisses Thor when he asks about the tales he'd been promised.

And Mother's eyes burn so, so quietly but all the more.

Once, Thor asks about his brother. The one he was promised (" _What do you think, Thor? What should we name your brother?")_ , whom he has not seen since the night Father returned.

Mother's already cracked smile freezes on her face, and her shoulders tense even more.

"What brother?" She asks, and Thor wonders if she knows how her voice quivers.

They don't talk, Thor's mama and papa. Just greet each other good morning cold enough that it makes him shiver. At the dining table, their forks scrape against their plates, the sound scratching the insides of Thor's ears, and it is silent. On the third day, Thor moves back to his room because he prefers it to laying between his mother and father like a wall instead of a bridge.

It's quiet in his room. The sheets are clean but not nearly creased enough, bed cold from disuse. Still, he clambers in and tugs the covers up to his chin, tucking the ends under his feet.

In the weeks after all the victory feasts and even a few colourful parades in the streets, after all the festivities, things… feel much the same. If any of the palace help notice the lack of… well  _anything_ , from their King and Queen, they do not show it. They speak in soft voices, slowly, pityingly and he cannot work out why.

Thor's uncle, Prince Vili, and Thor's cousin Balder stay in the palace for a short while. Balder is a little older than Thor, but it is only by a few years. Apparently, they met when they were only babes, though, Thor does not remember.

Balder is nice, very kind, and it's nice to finally have someone to talk to who isn't a grown up. So whilst his father helps Thor's with their royal duties, Thor and Balder venture outside, splashing in large puddles and chasing each other around the courtyard. Sometimes, they sneak out just to escape the strange, somber mood which paints the palace inside. A solace, of sorts, or a balm. And when it is time to come back in, because the sky is darkening, they stay in Thor's rooms playing with all his toys until it is time for bed.

 _This must be what it is to have friends_ , he thinks to himself, quietly, hopefully.

A few times, though he is likely needed at the palace, Uncle Vili leads them outside, taking both the boys in a hand each. It's good to be outside with someone who actually seems to understand what's going on. They walk around the courtyards, and then, because Thor has been trapped inside the palace ground for too long, he takes them to the city.

It's very busy in the city, more than expected. Everyone is out on the street, laughing and talking excitedly, vendors selling their wares, some people singing. So colourful and so loud. It's a lot, but it's good, and Thor feels his own energy getting swept up with it all. It's good, refreshing, alive.

Uncle Vili grips their hands tightly as they wade through the crowds, sometimes stopping to let them watch street performers or try samples of food from market stalls. Nobody ever really recognises them—there's so much going on, after all, so they're free to slip in and out as they please within the masses.

When they return, Uncle Vili takes him aside and looks at him and smiles in a way which is probably supposed to look comforting. It's not really. Mostly, it's a little sad.

And Thor can't figure out why.

"Everything is going to be all right, Thor. You just wait."

It's then that he tells them, that war brings death, and with death, loss. He says that loss is a heavy burden for a king to bear, even with victory. Especially the loss of loyal soldiers, good warriors following a leader into a battle.

"Give him time," he says, "He will come back. Give him time."

So that is what Thor does. Gives him time.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Thor looks out at his kingdom.  _

 

_ His Kingdom. The mighty Asgard, highest branch of the Yggdrasil, protector of the Nine, Realm eternal. He looks out at his kingdom from his throne. A mass of frightened, desolate, hopeful people. With no home, or land, or even sky. A hunk of a spaceship headed Earthward, in the middle of nowhere, the Void, endless and beginningless. _

 

_ Asgard, he tells himself, is not a place. It's a people _

 

_ Asgard is not a place, it's a people. _

 

_ By the sides of this makeshift throne (still a throne, he assures himself, because all thrones are made, not just sprung from divine origins, even if this one was not originally intended to be one) stands his comrades. Hulk _ _ — _ _ or Banner _ _ — _ _ with his brutish looks yet still sharp minds; the last of the Valkyrie _ _ — _ _ Brunhilde, though they are not quite at that stage yet— with her jagged edges yet unwavering, unyielding beliefs; Heimdall, loyal til the last and evermore, with his gaze AllSeeing _ _ — _ _ the true protector of the Nine; Korg, a new friend, leader of a revolution and the one who steered this ship to save their wretched hides. _

 

_ He is so, so grateful. _

 

_ And there are so many questions _ _ — _ _ more than Thor has the answers to, more than Odin had the answers to, perhaps. How will they feed the people, how will they get water, how will they wash? There are those in need of medicines, young children left parentless from Hela’s brief reign, elderly in need of extra care. What happens if they run out of fuel? Or if the ship is damaged? And they will all look to Thor, Thor their King, and ask him “What then? What now?” _

 

_ King of Asgard, how does it suit you?  _

 

_ Uncomfortably, he thinks. Too heavy on his shoulders. _

 

_ A firm cool hand grips his left shoulder, next to his neck, thumb rubbing circles in soothingly. Thor follows the hand to its wrists to its arm and up and smiles. _

 

_ The King is his people, he thinks. And the people of Asgard are strong. He will be okay. Everything will be alright, in the end.  _

 

_ Because perhaps they have taken a hit, perhaps they are down and not even standing, not even ready to kneel. Perhaps they are lying flat on their backs, paralysed, unable to do anything but endure what comes their way. But they will endure. And, eventually, they will get back up, even if it takes a while. They have to. _

 

_ Heimdall is the last to leave their temporary throne room, giving him a meaningful nod of respect and a shallow bow to symbolise the loyalty Thor knows he already has. His golden eyes speak of magnitudes. He who has seen all worlds, all kingdoms, all places. “What kind of king will you be?” they say. “How will you sit on this throne, and command your people? And, how will your people command you?” Heimdall leaves Thor, fixes his gaze on him entirely, openly, honestly in a show of solidarity. _

 

_ Everyone else has been sent away. Because, there is much to do, yes, much to plan and discuss and organise, but for now, Asgard needs to rest. Needs the time to lick the salt of their wounds, count up their losses and sing their honors as they join their ancestors in Valhalla, count up what remains and what must be held even closer and tighter, to remember and cry. _

 

_ They need time to mourn. _

 

_ Asgard is not a place, it's a people, yes, but even then, Asgard is still only a fraction of what it once was. _

 

_ The souls of his people cry, wailing so loudly and flooding every room, every compartment on this ship. The hearts of his people bleed everywhere, seeping into every surface and pore they touch, red ink spilling onto walls and floors, a spreading stain _ .  _ And it is Thor’s duty to clean it up. _

 

_ The air carries a soft, slow music. Sad and bittersweet like a funeral hymn. _

 

_ Asgard is not a place, it's a people. And their lands, their homes and mountains and rivers and forests are not sculpted from their surroundings, but their communications and loyalty and faith and their love. They rejoice together and weep together. _

 

_ When he is finally alone, on his throne, he allows himself to breathe, to look out. Out into the nothingness that blinks back. A vortex devoid of anything, sucking them in, threatening to drown them. It seems to go on forever and ever and ever.  _

 

_ “Be wary of the Void,” Mother had once said, “For things with nothing must be eventually be occupied by something, and you do not want that to be you.” _

 

_ It is infinity that stretches before (and after) them, in the end. An open clearing with no paths, just a field where the direction and route you take must be your choice alone. _

 

_ Or it is space, where you are both floating and falling, with none of the up or down to guide you so that you may as well not be moving at all. _

 

_ It is silence. _

 

_ His father is dead _ _ — _ _ they did not even have a funeral. Could not. The tree planted in honour of his mother, what seems like eons ago, has fallen. It was supposed to last forever. _

 

They _ were supposed to last forever. _

 

_ Some small part of him, tiny and insignificant, mourns the sister he never knew, or only as a monster. He thinks of Hela, and how he'd wanted a sibling so badly that he'd dreamt one up _ _ — _ _ still is. He remembers how she'd looked at him, viciously, savagely, a sister to a brother, and cut his eye from its socket.  _

 

_ “Such a pair,” she'd exclaimed mockingly. “He sounds like him and now you look like him.” _

 

_ And she had said, confidently, with all the knowledge as the Goddess of Death, that he couldn't kill her, that death doesn't really seem to keep if you are a child of Odin.  _

 

_ And it's a lonely place on a throne. _

 

_ Thor is not alone, though.  _

 

_ Well, he is... kind of. It depends on your definition of alone. But... not really. _

 

_ Loki comes down to find his place next to him, joining him at his staring out of the window to the empty vacuum before them. When he steps, his feet tap against the floor lightly. And the curls of his midnight hair flutter with the movement. The bright lights of the ship reflect off his pale white skin as though they are made of moonstone, dazzling him so that if Thor squints his eyes ever so slightly, Loki seems to glow blue _ _ — _ _ just a little. _

 

So whole _ , Thor thinks to himself.  _ So real.

 

_ His brother meets his eyes. The connection of it extends between them like a lifeline.  Thor takes it. _

 

_ “You know,” begins Thor, eyes drawing back to the eternity surrounding them (and Thor tries not to think of it as oppressive.)  _

 

_ “Yes?” his brother asks, following his gaze into the beyond. _

 

_ And Thor let's out an awkward chuckle, because how silly this is. “You know, if you were here, I might even hug you.”  _

 

_ His brother releases a breath then, shifting his weight beside him. _

 

 

* * *

 

I'm here.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- Ahhh okay, so this was the last chapter WHOOOO. I really really hope everyone enjoyed it. This was a very different type of fic from my usual fic.
> 
> It's been amazing hearing everyone's theories, many I hadn't even thought of myself!
> 
> Anyways, if you'd like to see the narrative I was going for as the writer, look no further! However, one thing id like to stress is that I really wanted to create something where the reader could interpret it in different ways and all if them would be correct. So the way i wrote it does not mean the way you might have read it is wrong.
> 
> I'll tackle this chronologically.
> 
> So, the earliest scene is the one pre-end of war w/frost giants. Frigga reads Thor a story. Id say this is one of Thor's earliest memories. The reason for the story about the brother was to provide a red herring. As in, because Thor remembers this, the reader is allowed to assume his mind created Loki after being inspired by Loki.
> 
> But he didn't
> 
> The next is Odin returning from the war. He hands Frigga a bundle of *something*. And, I can reveal they were telling the truth. The bundle was Loki. However, notice Frigga didnt let Thor see him? That's because the one thing I changed in my narrative of the story was that Loki didn't shape shift. Loki didn't shape shift.
> 
> And he's a baby right? Odin finds a jotun baby in a temple in the middle of a terrible jotun winter. Of course he'd take it home. But Loki was a jotun baby and he doesn't shapeshift. He is a frost giant so he can probably handle Jotun winters just fine. shape shift
> 
> Asgard However, even in winter, is much warmer than Jotunheim. So I took that and exaggerated it. What would happen if you left a human baby in the middle if the Sahara? Likewise, what would happen if you took a jotun baby to Asgard?
> 
> So Yeah, here's the thing. Loki is dead, but not really.
> 
> It's more like he's teetering on half life half death existence. So because Loki's dead, being the really-not-perfect parents odin and Frigga are, they just decide to pretend Loki never existed at all. Odin is ashamed by his arrogance and lack of thinking, and neither of them want to explain death to Thor. Hence, the gaslighting. His half life is due to the fact that Odin also has the Casket of Ancient Winters. So by lending it's power which originates from Jotunheim he manages to keep baby Loki in this sort of perpetual dying stage.
> 
> The memory where Thor wakes up In the healers In and his head hurts and his hand is cold. This moment secretly symbolises when his connection with Loki starts. Thor and Balder really are playing hide and seek, and Thor sneaks down to the lower levels of the palace. Here's what goes down but Thor doesn't remember. (Firstly) odins vault has crappy security. So Thor find baby Loki. Is traumatized by the fact he legit just found what looks like a dead baby, even if it's a jotun. But he touches it. He faints.
> 
> He wakes up and he can sort of remember but eventually his mind takes on another explanation instead, whether it's the brain reacting to trauma by blocking it out, or Frigga's mind meddling, It's unclear. Nevertheless, he sort of has this soulconnection thing with the half dead baby.
> 
> The rest of the scenes kind of slot in nicely, both Loki and Thor think Loki really is part of Thor's imagination, and Thor's parents don't question why Thor's imaginary brother happens to be called Loki because, well, they never named the jotun baby so the name means nothing to them. Additionally, you might have noticed i interspersed quotes from various movies, from scenes with either Thor or Loki, these were basically an attempt to thinly disguise Loki's thoughts, some which were random, nd some which were connected to the scenes they juxtaposed. So yea, I had a lot of fun finding those
> 
> In the last scene, we hear a bit about Hela. She says "he sounds like him and now you look like him" notice, she refers to both of them? Hela is the Goddess of Death remember? So of course she can see Loki. (Also thanks to my beta takethatusername for suggesting I add this) Also, the past line " Im here was pinched from ragnarok obviously, but I didn't put it into italics because wanted the possibility that Loki actually was real to linger.
> 
> So Yeah, that's the fic. Im so happy that people liked it! And y'all are free to interpret it however. That was my main goal writing it, to create something that everyone might interpret differently, from the facts and opinions I have them from a single very unreliable narrator. Which I think this achieved?
> 
> Anyways, if you did like it, I'd be very very eager to hear your thoughts on the fic over all and what your theories were! Thank you all so much for reading! <3<3
> 
> -Mercia

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like it. Thank you for reading! you can find me on Tumblr @mercialachesis 
> 
> Thank you<3
> 
> (Ps- reviews fuel my writing car, which emits no CO2 so everyone wins!!)


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